


Schism

by orangenseok



Series: Superhumans [1]
Category: GOT7, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Abandonment, Abuse, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Tragedy, Attempted Murder, Coming of Age, Corruption, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotions, Family Drama, Fighting, Friendship, Gen, Government Conspiracy, Government Experimentation, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Assault, Isolation, Kidnapping, Loss of Parent(s), Manipulation, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Murder, Mutant Society, Non-Human Humanoid Society, Suicide Attempt, Superpowers, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-10-12 18:50:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 43,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17473043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangenseok/pseuds/orangenseok
Summary: The way he saw it, Min Yoongi had two options: stay in the confines—and admittedly, safety—of his bedroom like his parents and brother would want, continuing to observe the outside world like a bird in a cage, or finally work up the balls to disobey the rules his parents had set—rules that had become such a fundamental element of his being—sneak out of his proverbial cage, and spread his wings.That window was the boundary between two worlds: the world of his home, safety—the only world he’d ever known—and the world of the outside, with its unpredictability, that he had always merely observed with a deep longing in his chest. Could he disobey the rules that had governed his life thus far and cross the unseen barrier?He could.





	1. Sloth

**Author's Note:**

> This fic, and the series following, is a Superhumans!AU collab with my dear friend Bright_Moon_Beam! I will be writing BTS’s portions, and she will be writing GOT7’s! Go check her out! Much of her writing will influence events in mine, and vice versa. We’ll probably try to post a new chapter every Saturday.

Hiding. His first lesson in life had been to make himself unseen, to remain hidden from the watchful eyes of others. While other children were learning the importance of sharing, he was learning the consequences of losing control. While other children were learning to read, to write, and to do arithmetic, he was learning to blend in with the shadows of human society. 

Min Yoongi could be nothing more than a passing thought to the outside world.

His parents kept him as far away from other children as they could. He remembered, on the rare occasion his mother would take him on errands with her, watching the other kids playing with one another. He had tugged on her hand once and had begged to join them, pointing excitedly in their direction. She had shushed him with a harsh whisper, pulling him closer to herself and hurrying him along. Once they were out of sight of the other children—and more importantly, their parents—his mother pulled him aside. 

“Yoongi,” her hushed voice was firm, “you know you can’t play with the other kids.”

“I know. . .” he had mumbled, shuffling his feet. “But why?” his inquiry was accompanied by a pout directed up at his mother

“It’s too dangerous, Yoongi,” she had insisted, clasping his hands in hers as she knelt to see eye-level with him. “You’re not like the other girls and boys. You’re special, and that makes it dangerous. If people find out, we’ll be in big trouble, okay?”

He had nodded, not really understanding at the time what made him so special compared to the others, or why it was dangerous to play with them. But he never asked to again, and Yoongi spent his childhood in isolation.

———

He grew to understand as he aged. It was his only option in a world where he was wrong to be “special,” so he tolerated it. It wasn’t truly isolation, anyways, he rationed. He had his parents and his older brother, although. . .he didn’t really talk much with them. 

He heard distant voices out his window, and he glanced up from his reading to gaze out. The sun was shining, not a cloud was in the brilliant blue sky, and Yoongi longed to experience it himself.

For a moment, he entertained sneaking out his window, but he forced himself to look away and draw the curtains. Propping his chin up in his palm with a sigh, he found himself idly playing with the flame of a lit candle on his desk. He felt its soft warmth dancing around his fingertips as he traced his finger around the wick. Gaze flitting from his textbook—foreign names and places swirling in his vision—to the much more appealing gentle light emanating at his side, Yoongi decided he’d done enough studying for the evening. 

Sitting back in his chair and shoving the book to the side, he coaxed the flame to grow, the gentle glow increasing in intensity as it trailed up his arm. With a flick of his wrist, the tongues of fire snaked out, dancing brilliantly above the surface of his palm. He was watching two flames engaged in a partner waltz when he was startled out of his concentration. The fire around him flared up suddenly as he jumped at the sound of his older brother’s voice; he glanced over his shoulder to see him standing in the door frame, incredulous expression twisting into a frown. 

“Yoongi!” he exclaimed, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You _know_ you’re not allowed to use your abilities in the house, and this is why!” He gestured beyond him, and Yoongi turned back to see the hem of his curtains ablaze. 

“Shit!” he fell back out of his chair as he recoiled, the growing blaze overtaking his poor curtains and singeing the ends of his hair. His brother rushed past him as he collected himself, tearing the curtains to the floor and stamping out the flames. He narrowed his eyes down at Yoongi and crossed his arms, a disappointed look painted across his face.

“What?” he asked curtly, his voice low, grinding the ashes that once were his curtains into the floor beneath his feet. 

“This is the third time I’ve caught you _this month._ Yoongi, you can’t keep doing this,” he sighed, exasperatedly running a hand through his hair. “Powers are _forbidden._ You know that.”

“Whatever,” Yoongi mumbled, eyes downcast as he righted his desk chair. “At least you’re not stuck in solitary, you have freedom.”

“But I _do_ know how dangerous it is if either of us get caught. You and I, we’d be publicly executed just for being superhumans.” 

“I know that, too. It’s not fair,” Yoongi declared, trying to mask the way his voice caught in his throat. He scrunched up his face in distaste at it. 

“I know. None of this is fair,” his brother sighed heavily, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Listen, I don’t agree with them keeping you locked up here, but it’s for your own safety, Yoongi. Please, don’t fight them on it. The world is fucked up, and we’re just safer laying low. If we’re found out, we will _all_ be killed.”

“ _They_ ’d be fine, so why are they so concerned if _I_ get myself killed? I’m just a _worthless_ superhuman, anyways,” Yoongi muttered with a sneer, voice dripping with bitter sarcasm.

“C’mon Yoongi, don’t say that. You know that protecting us is just as dangerous for them. It’s as illegal for humans to hide superhumans as it is for superhumans to be superhuman. They could be killed, too. But they. . .they love you, Yoongi, so they’re risking everything to keep you hidden and safe.”

“Sure doesn’t seem like it,” he muttered, flopping back down into his desk chair, puffing out his cheeks in displeasure. He spun in half-circles in his chair, toying with the extinguished candle on his desk. “They’d consider my feelings more if they _loved_ me.”

“They want to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting. I’m fine,” Yoongi insisted, grabbing the candle in his hand; he glared daggers at it and squeezed it until the wax snapped in two. “I could handle myself,” his voice was low—barely audible—and for a moment, he thought maybe his brother hadn’t heard him. He heard him clear his throat, however, and looked up. He was met with a doubtful look as his brother pointed down at Yoongi’s ruined curtains. 

Yoongi said nothing, lips screwed up in a pout. He focused his attention on breaking wax drippings off one half of his broken candle instead of on the singed fabric on his floor. 

He heard shuffling behind him after a moment, and he glanced over his shoulder to see his brother clearing away the evidence of Yoongi’s mistake. He watched him straighten, then pause at the door. “I’ll talk to them. See what I can do. But _no more fire_ , okay, Yoongi?”

“Whatever.” His door shut with a soft click. “I’d be able to control my powers if you’d just let me _use_ them,” he muttered, glaring down at his waxy hands. “Won’t get anywhere without practice.”

He brushed the wax off his hands and replaced his broken candle, lighting it with the tip of his finger. He stared at the flame, cupping his hands around it and watching it build into a great fire within his palms. He was going to keep honing his abilities no matter what, but soon abandoned the prospect at the sound of loud voices out his window. He let the flame dwindle to nothing but a flicker and peaked over the windowsill. He watched a few teenagers a little younger than himself pass through the alley beside his house; they sounded so. . .happy and carefree, a luxury granted only to humans. He gritted his teeth and turned away from the window; he couldn’t help the bitter envy that bubbled up in his chest, and he slammed his fist down on his desk. He heard the clatter of his candle falling over, and watched apathetically as his abandoned history textbook caught fire. 

_Damn it._

———

Yoongi leaned over his desk and craned his neck, glaring at the window like it had done something to offend him. Sure, the dirty old panes and chipping paint on the windowsill were an eyesore without curtains—his mother had refused to get him any more—but they weren’t the intended recipients of his angry glances. They had arrived at the same time they’d arrived the past two weeks—the same three teens: two boys and a girl. That day, one of the boys had brought a basketball, and had been taking turns bouncing it off the side of the Mins’ house for a while. _They_ were the source of Yoongi’s unpleasant expression as he was forced to endure the incessant drumming of the ball as he tried to focus. 

He was, as always, practicing his powers in secret with the goal of finding a way to control them. He always ended up using more power than necessary, so the goal was to find some method of moderation. He had sparked a flame on the wick of his candle—the fourth one in a week, he was ashamed to admit—and was trying to draw it to himself. He knew he had a hold of it, if he could just lift it off the wick—

_Thwack._

Startled a bit, Yoongi saw his flame sputtering. A twitch of his fingers and a flick of his wrist prevented the candle from going out, but he had to start over. Again. He concentrated on lifting the flame from the wick, and he suppressed a victorious grin as he saw it rise above the candle, a tiny fireball hovering in midair. Now, he had to—

 _Thwack._ The ball again. 

He saw the fireball waver in midair, but it burned strong. A small victory. He concentrated on calling it to him, watching the flame blaze bigger and brighter as it grew closer. He could almost touch it—

_Thwack._

The fireball fell, and Yoongi stomped it out before the flames could spread. He set his jaw, then stalked over to his desk again. 

Before he even realized what he was doing, he was reaching forward for the latch of his window. He was surprised to find it unlocked—hadn’t his parents sealed the windows to prevent something like this? He pushed the window open, leaning out into the warm summer air. He paused for a moment, momentarily forgetting about the disturbance that drove him there as he took in the feel of fresh air on his skin—a rare experience, given that he was essentially in lockdown at all times. But with another _thwack_ of the rubber against concrete, he directed his gaze once again to the teens, digging his nails into the windowsill in annoyance. 

The drumming of the ball continued. Incessant, pounding; it felt like it was beating a terrible drum-beat within his very skull. 

“Hey!” he finally found his voice to shout gruffly at the strange teens. The ball froze in one of the boy’s hands as three pairs of eyes turned on him. “Can you cut it out?”

“Woah, hey!” the shortest of the boys exclaimed, excitedly bounding over beneath his window. “I didn’t think any kids lived here! Everyone says the Mins never had any.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I exist, and I’m pretty sure I don’t exist just to endure the splitting headaches you’re causing me with that fucking ball! I’m trying to focus,” he lowered his voice this time, not wanting to draw his parents’ attention to himself. “So could you _please_ ,” he breathed, relaxing his grip on the windowsill, “ _stop_?”

“Um, I guess so,” the girl shrugged, her tone conveying a twinge of distaste for his request. 

“No, wait! Why don’t you join us!” the first boy suggested, glancing back over at his friends. Yoongi watched the girl shake her head in disapproval. “We could play two-on-two then!”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes down at the kid, who certainly must not have been paying attention during his rant, as he offered him a wide smile and held up the basketball towards him like an invitation. 

“Hard pass,” he refused, glancing away from the boy’s bright smile. He didn’t realize how lucky he was, being able to laugh and smile and have friends like that. To be _normal_ like that. After a moment’s hesitation, Yoongi moved to close the window. 

“Wait!” the boy shouted, and Yoongi paused—almost against his will. “What’s your name?” he asked, still grinning his foolish boxy grin. 

“What’s it to you?” he shot back, scoffing as he saw the kid shrug. Against his better judgement, however, he answered him: “Yoongi.” Then, he slammed the window shut, returning to his task.

———

A few days later, Yoongi was in the middle of freezing every drop of liquid in the building when his mother’s shrill voice cut through the house to his room. 

“Yoongi!” he heard her shout, but elected to ignore it and continue freezing a particularly stubborn carton of milk. “Min Yoongi, you get in here right now!” He sighed, deeming it more favorable to listen to her now and avoid facing exponentially more wrath later if he didn’t. 

He hesitated before he slipped through the doorway into his living room where his mother was standing, hands on her hips and an infuriated look on her face. 

“Yoongi,” she began, breathing in deeply, her voice dangerously calm. “A junior high student just knocked on our door, asking ‘if Yoongi wanted to go play basketball with him and his friends at the park.’”

Yoongi’s eyes widened, and he internally cursed at himself for his stupidity, and at the stupid kid with the boxy smile for being so… 

_Frustrating._

“What is the first rule of this household?” she asked him, her quiet tone laced with deadly harshness. Yoongi didn’t respond, staring intently at his feet.

“Answer me,” she demanded, raising her voice.

“No interacting with the outside,” he repeated the mantra quietly, puffing out his cheeks and looking anywhere but at his mother. 

“And what did you do?”

“I...spoke with humans. Outside.”

“You could have jeopardized _everything_! You know it’s not safe, so please…” she sighed, running a hand down her face exasperatedly. “It’s a good thing that boy was naive enough to believe you were just a visiting relative, but you seriously could have put yourself in so much danger!”

“Doubt it,” Yoongi muttered under his breath, and his mother cocked an eyebrow at him. 

“What was that?”

“I said I doubt it,” he stated calmly, crossing his arms. “They’re just teenagers. They didn’t seem very dangerous.”

“What happens if they tell their parents, hmm?” she questioned, and he shrugged. 

“What _does_ happen? Nothing? It sure seems like nothing,” he snarked, shooting his mother a deadpan look.

“What do we do if something _does_ happen, Yoongi? We have rules in place to _protect_ you! Your father and I don’t want anything to happen to you,” she was almost pleading with him at that point. He didn’t care. 

“Bullshit!” he shouted, causing his mother to recoil. He frowned at her reaction, and shot accusations through gritted teeth. “You’re just scared of me! You’re humans, you think I’m going to kill you someday, accidentally or otherwise! That’s why you lock me up.”

His mother shook her head. She looked like she wanted to say something, but he cut her off. 

“I’m a prisoner in my own home. You’re just like the humans you warned me about growing up,” he narrowed his eyes at her, and his mother narrowed hers right back at him. 

“Yoongi, I’m going to say this once: go to your room,” her voice was quiet, saccharine sweet, but Yoongi recognized the tone as one not to be challenged. However, Yoongi was as stubborn as he was short, and he fired back an—admittedly timid—“no.”

“Yoongi, if you do not go to your room right now, so help me God, your abilities will be powerless against the unholy wrath I will rain down upon you,” she remained calm, terribly so, and Yoongi realized quite rapidly that it would be in his best interest to obey. He hung his head and retreated back to his room. He heard his mother’s heavy footfalls as she stormed after him. 

“You’re lucky I don’t gr—“ she entered his room and froze as she took in the circle of various frozen liquids in the center of his floor. Her mouth hung agape in shock for a moment, eyes trained on the milk carton he had been struggling with earlier, before her gaze found him. She shot him a confused look, gesturing vaguely at the circle. “Wha—?”

“I was...sacrificing myself to the milk gods,” he offered as explanation, chuckling at his own joke even though his mother didn’t seem to find it humorous. 

“The milk will spoil! What is wrong with you?” her question lacked any bite, but instead she sounded...tired. 

“It’s refrigerated,” he shrugged, leaning against his desk as she bent to pick up a frozen carton. As soon as she realized he had been using his powers, her expression fell drastically. She calmly removed each frozen container of something or other, and closed the door behind her. Yoongi was waiting for an outburst, but nothing came. 

Then he heard the _click_ of a key in the lock of his door. 

Had she—? He took tentative steps towards his door, then grasped the handle and tried to turn it. It _was_ locked. He had been locked in. Anger bubbled in his chest then; now he was truly nothing more than a prisoner in his own home. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he blinked them away, trying to force them gone. He kicked his desk chair over and slammed his palms down on the old wooden desk surface. He glared out the window, and an idea formed in his head. 

The way he saw it, Min Yoongi had two options: stay in the confines—and admittedly, safety—of his bedroom like his parents and brother would want, continuing to observe the outside world like a bird in a cage, or finally work up the balls to disobey the rules his parents had set—rules that had become such a fundamental element of his being—sneak out of his proverbial cage, and spread his wings.

That window was the boundary between two worlds: the world of his home, safety—the only world he’d ever known—and the world of the outside, with its unpredictability, that he had always merely observed with a deep longing in his chest. Could he disobey the rules that had governed his life thus far and cross the unseen barrier?

He could. 

He stalked over to his door; he placed his hand on the center, watching as a layer of ice coated the door from the splintered wood to the frame. It was sealed; he could leave, and his family would be none the wiser should his mother decide to release him from his imprisonment early. 

He then opened his window and, after a moment’s hesitation, he climbed over his desk and slipped through it. His feet landed on harsh concrete, and he almost wept at it. He was standing outside again for the first time in over a decade. 

He remembered in that moment his mother’s mention of the smiley boy. He was going to be at...the park? But where even was the park? Yoongi sure didn’t know. Not that he wanted to go join the teens there anyways. 

So, without any knowledge of where he was going nor any plan, Yoongi took off running. He followed sidewalk after sidewalk, branching into other side routes until he found something that interested him. He’d observe for a while, and then he’d move on. He stopped into small shops and family restaurants, taking in each one’s atmosphere and watching the humans milling about. He saw more people in that short excursion than he’d ever seen before in his entire life.

———

The sky was turning orange with the onset of dusk as Yoongi walked home, trying to retrace his steps. None of the buildings he passed were even remotely familiar, and he rued the fact that he hadn’t paid attention to the route he took when he left. He was ashamed to admit it: he was thoroughly lost. 

“Yoongi!” he heard a voice shout a ways away, and he started, eyes nervously darting around to locate the source of the voice. It was the boy with the boxy smile; he was bounding across a grassy plain to greet Yoongi. He supposed he must have found the park. 

“Do you…” the boy heaved, hunched over his knees as he panted, “want to...play with us?” He asked, then pointed behind him. Yoongi was able to see a basketball court not far away. 

“Uhh...no thanks,” Yoongi mumbled, and the smiley boy frowned. 

“Oh,” he muttered, then turned to retreat. 

“Wait,” Yoongi hesitantly reached out to grab his shoulder. “I— I think I’m lost.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Min said you were from out of town. I can show you back to the Mins’ if you’d like,” he offered, shooting Yoongi another boxy grin. 

“Yeah, that'd be...nice. Thanks,” he awkwardly nodded his gratitude to the boy, then followed a bit behind him as he led him home. 

The boy was chattering aimlessly as they walked, but Yoongi wasn’t really listening to any of it. He didn’t really understand why the boy was so intent upon getting him, a complete stranger, to join him and his friends, even going so far as to come to his house and ask for him. Were all humans so kind? Generous enough to help a stranger? If so, maybe the outside wasn’t quite as dangerous as he’d been taught. 

———

Over the rest of the course of the summer, Yoongi more and more frequently snuck out. He was learning the roads rather quickly. He knew his way to his favorite place best of all: the tiny shop on the corner by the school building that housed dozens of shiny new musical instruments. The shopkeeper was an elderly man who seemed perfectly content to allow Yoongi to keep returning day after day to practice. He had taken a liking to an old piano in the corner, and with the help of the older man, he had begun to pick up playing it rather quickly. 

Every day when he returned home, given his proximity to the school and the athletic fields, he would pass numerous kids of all ages engaged in various small-scale sports games. And just about every day, the three teens from beneath his window would be there, too. Each time he passed, the boy with the boxy smile would greet him, asking him to join. Each time he asked, Yoongi would refuse, continuing on his way. 

He warmed up to it, though. He would still refuse his offer to join, but he began to look forward to seeing the boy and his friends whenever he went out. Taehyung, that was his name (he had told Yoongi upon their fourth or fifth meeting); he couldn’t remember the others’ names. It didn’t matter, he figured. He wasn’t really acquainted with them like he was with Taehyung.

———

With the end of summer came the onset of school once again for the rest of the children in town, and for Yoongi, it marked the end of his daily excursions. He couldn’t be seen outside when the rest of the kids his age were in school; he knew it would look suspicious. 

He still went out on weekends, however. He intercepted Taehyung and his friends much less frequently, but...that wasn’t even why he was going out, right? 

It was around the time when it began to get dark noticeably earlier when one of Taehyung’s friends—the boy whose name Yoongi forgot—approached him as he was heading home one Saturday. 

“I know you’re like...friends with Taehyung, right,” he started, and Yoongi shot him a confused look. Friends? Were they friends?

“I...I guess, yeah,” he responded reluctantly. 

“Have you seen him anywhere? It’s been a few days. His parents don’t know where he is, nobody in his grade has seen him nor any of the higher grades,” he explained, his rambling increasing in speed and audible concern as he continued to speak. “He’s only thirteen, he couldn’t have... _gone_ anywhere.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Yoongi muttered, masking his own concern and the way his throat seemed to constrict. _Taehyung was just...gone?_

“Keep an eye out, will you?” the boy asked, to which Yoongi nodded. He then ran off, leaving Yoongi to continue heading home with a lot to think about. 

He made it through his window and melted the ice sealing his door just in time for his brother to knock, bringing him his dinner like usual. He mumbled a thanks, staring down at his plate for a while before setting it aside. 

“What’s wrong with it today?” his brother rolled his eyes, voice laced with annoyance. 

“Not hungry,” he muttered, shrugging half-heartedly. 

“What’s wrong with you, then?” his brother prodded, standing in front of him expectantly. 

“I’m just bothered.”

“By what?”

“Something.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Why do I have to answer you?” Yoongi challenged, glaring up at his brother. “You ignore me ninety percent of the time, then expect me to open up to you when I’m upset?” he scoffed, shaking his head. 

“I’m older than you, so you _have_ to answer me when I demand you to. Like I am now.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow, shooting him a look that said “Are you serious?” He sighed after a moment, figuring he had no choice but to answer. 

“You really want to know? A…” he paused, considering his words for a moment, “An acquaintance of mine has gone missing. None of his friends or family have seen him for days, and he's pretty young, too. Forgive me if I’m a bit worried for him.”

His brother stared at him in stunned silence. “Yoongi,” he eventually spoke, his voice hushed, “have you been going outside?”

“Yup,” he nodded, shuffling past his brother and to his window. “Through here,” he shrugged and gestured out after he had opened it. “Have been for months. What are you gonna do about it?”

His brother remained silent for a moment, then turned sharply on his heel and left the room. Yoongi watched him go with a deadpan look directed at his back until he heard him yell for their mother, which incited Yoongi to chase after him.

“Seriously? Tattling?” he called, trying to ignore the fear building in the back of his mind. “How old are you?” He burst into the room with his parents and brother only to catch the tail end of their conversation. 

“Yoongi,” his mother’s voice was stern. He slouched, putting on a mask of annoyance to hide his fear. “Is it true? Have you been sneaking out?”

He shrugged, acting nonchalant. But it was all pretense, he was panicking internally. What would his parents do this time? He _had_ disobeyed the single most important rule of their household. Multiple times. 

“We risk our _lives_ to protect you and your brother, and you repay us by breaking the _single rule_ we have in place for you,” she shook her head. “On numerous occasions, at that.”

“I don’t _need_ protecting!” he insisted, clenching his fists at his sides. 

“If you believe that, then you can get out. We’re not wasting our time and endangering ourselves for you if you’re going to be ungrateful for everything we’ve done,” his father offered, crossing his arms as he stared him down. 

“Maybe I will!” he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stay quiet, but he couldn’t prevent the words that tumbled out of his mouth next. “But don’t pretend like any of this has been done because you _love_ me. I’m just your _useless_ , dangerous superhuman of a son and you have to keep me hidden away to save your own skins just in case I’m _useless_ enough to give you away. It’s never been about _me_ , it’s always been about saving your own asses and the life of your precious older son, hasn’t it?” 

He stood firm, reveling in the stunned—and uncomfortable—silence that descended upon the room. It was an ephemeral moment, however; all of a sudden, Yoongi heard the _smack_ of skin on skin, and the side of his face began to sting painfully. He glanced over: his mother had slapped him. 

“You’re my precious son, too,” her low voice wavered. She seemed on the brink of tears, but so was Yoongi. He wouldn’t let them see him cry, though, so he turned sharply out of the room and stormed out of the house with a final declaration of “Stop lying.”

He wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand as he ran off into the growing darkness. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was doing. He just _had_ to get out of that house; he _had_ to leave and never return. He was tired of the isolation, tired of the longing, tired of wishing he had just been born _normal_.

He heard the pounding of feet on pavement behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see his brother following him. He cursed under his breath and picked up his pace. He didn’t notice Taehyung’s friend trying to get his attention as he passed him. 

Eventually, after multiple wrong turns, Yoongi had cornered himself in an alley. He was nearly out of stamina, and his brother caught up to him quickly. 

“You can’t do this, Yoongi,” he yelled, approaching him as Yoongi backed away. “I know you regret what you said, and mom and dad do, too. Come back now, and everything will be okay.”

“Fuck off,” he snarled, waving him away, a blaze of fire accompanying his fingertips as he did. 

“Yoongi,” he warned, lowering his voice. “Don’t. Someone will see.”

“Let them see!” he exclaimed, balling his fists and digging his nails into his palms. 

“You’ll get us all killed!” 

“Correction: you only care if I get _you guys_ killed. I don’t matter,” he pointed a finger accusingly at him, flames blazing up around his feet. 

“I—“ his brother began, but was cut off by a shocked gasp. They turned in unison to see a boy—Taehyung’s friend—at the entrance of the alley. 

“...Yoongi?” he practically whispered, face white with fear.

Both Min brothers were frozen in shock. Yoongi let the flames die around him, finding the courage to speak after a moment. His voice was soft. 

“Hey…please, I—“

“Did— Did you do something to Taehyung?” the boy accused, glaring daggers at Yoongi. 

“No, I would never—“ he tried to plea with the boy, but he wouldn’t listen. He turned and ran, yelling something about “making him pay” as he went. 

Yoongi had done everything he had assured himself he wouldn’t do. He lost control of his powers in public, he gave away that he was superhuman, and he got caught in the act. His brother grabbed the collar of his sweatshirt, practically growling, “Home, _now_.” Yoongi obliged, too stunned and overwhelmed with terror to protest. 

The scenery passed in a blur, and before he knew it, they were back home. His brother shoved him through the door. “Pack your things. Clothes, whatever. One suitcase. Pack, now,” he commanded, and Yoongi obeyed in a fog. He heard his brother explaining the situation to their parents through the thin walls as he absently shoved some clothes and other various belongings into his small suitcase. He knew the protocol. They were found out, so they had to leave. He should’ve been rejoicing, but now that everything he had brushed off as “impossible” was...reality. 

He finished packing and joined the rest of his family in his brother's room. He had his suitcase ready, too. 

“You have to pretend like you didn’t know,” he told their parents. Yoongi remained silent and turned to leave with his brother. He heard his mother call to him, but he refused to stop. He shoved on a baseball hat and a mask as he left the threshold of the house to hide his face, and followed his brother to a bus station about a half hour from their former home. 

Yoongi waited in silence. He remained silent as his brother shoved a bus ticket and a wad of cash into his hand. He remained silent as he watched his brother board a bus out of the city. He remained silent as he waited, alone, for his own bus. 

He was silent on the bus, he was silent as he reached his destination. A small and foreign place on the very outskirts of Daegu. He sighed, brandishing his suitcase as he stepped out into the unknown. 

———

Months passed, and winter was fast approaching. Yoongi had holed himself up in an abandoned building. He figured it must have been some sort of shop at some point. Few people ventured into that part of town, so he deemed it safe. But it was cold, and he couldn’t use his flames or else risk burning the place down. 

It was a chilly evening in early December, and Yoongi was down to the very last of the cash his brother had given him before they left. This was his last run for a meager amount of groceries and some more blond hair dye to touch up his roots. A manhunt had started for him on suspicion that he had something to do with one Kim Taehyung’s disappearance. So he dyed his hair and got a different color of contacts to maybe, just maybe avoid matching his own description. 

He needed to figure something out, and soon, if he wanted to keep living, though. A monetary solution and a housing solution came first. He pondered his options on his way to the drugstore, oblivious to everything going on around him, including the shady man tailing him. 

He had his groceries and was heading home when the man stepped out in front of him. He walked straight into him, spilling the contents of his grocery bags around him. The man bent to help him clean up, and then he spoke. 

“Min Yoongi,” he greeted him under his breath, and Yoongi froze. He gulped, slowly looking up at the face of the man in front of him. The fox-like eyes that stared down at him were accompanied by a sly grin. 

“I’ll assume your silence means I’ve found you,” the man mused, and he could hear the amusement in his voice. He continued collecting Yoongi’s scattered belongings as spoke. “I’ve got an offer for you. You’re out of cash and don’t exactly have a place to stay, am I wrong?”

Yoongi bit his lip, glancing away sheepishly. The man was right. He didn’t know how he knew, but he didn’t want to let him know that he was right. 

“I have an offer for you. Free housing, free food, and a little bit of spending money on the side, should you choose to take it.”

Yoongi’s ears perked up at that, and he finally spoke to the man, “You’re...telling the truth?”

“Of course, my boy,” he clapped him on the shoulder and handed him his bag, contents where they belonged once again. 

“I—“ he stood, considering his options for a moment. He didn’t trust this man, but he also knew he was thoroughly screwed otherwise. “How did you know my name?” he inquired, though he was scared of the answer. 

“We keep tabs on lots of superhumans. Just in case they show interest in our...sport,” he shrugged, though his hesitance was concerning to Yoongi. 

“What sport?”

“Fighting. Like mixed martial arts, but with your abilities, too. I’m here to offer you a contract to fight. I’m like...an agent,” he grinned, extending his hand with a flourish. “Will you accept my offer?”

Yoongi considered his outstretched hand. He didn’t know how to fight, but surely he’d learn, right? It also would probably help him learn to control his powers, he reasoned. He didn’t have any other options, and this one seemed like a saving grace. 

“So you’re not gonna turn me in for being superhuman?” he asked, and when the man shook his head “no”, he tentatively shook his hand. “I’ll...accept.”

———

In the months that followed, Yoongi was forced to endure the rigorous training regiment, but by the end of it, he was skilled in multiple fighting styles and had a sound control of his abilities. Both of them. He could use his fire and ice for whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and at the same time. No more unwanted outbursts. 

On his birthday, the fox-like man and the other superhumans signed to his contract held a party for him. He’d never had a real birthday party before; it took seventeen years. He learned that evening of another aspect of his powers: his chest would glow when he was happy. He supposed he had never been truly happy at home. 

He began fighting that spring and had an immediate penchant for it. But he also quickly learned of the horrors of the underground fighting rings—most fighters who lost, ended up dead. Yoongi himself refused to kill his opponents, and spectators ended up taking a liking to him. He rose to the top of the ranks, and was popular for his merciful approach. 

He had been fighting for a couple months. His next match was extremely anticipated: his opponent's boss outrageously claimed that his fighter would be the first of some new age of superhumans. He felt bad that the poor rookie would have to face him first, but at least Yoongi wouldn’t kill him like other fighters might. 

He stepped into the cage as usual, listening to the announcers list off his—or “Hades’”, as the spectators had begun to call him—achievements. He was feeling overwhelmingly confident, but then...his opponent stumbled into the ring. 

A familiar face greeted him, wide eyes filled to the brim with tears. He was thinner than he remembered. His voice was hoarse and soft, but it still carried over the noise of the spectators. 

“Yoongi…?”


	2. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His chest constricted and he struggled to catch his breath; it felt like he was drowning. His heart was pounding in his ears, pounding, pounding, pounding, louder, louder, louder, until it resembled the sound of the gunshots outside. He grasped the sides of his head and screamed, trying to break himself out of the vision, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t—
> 
> “Seokjin!” he heard Sangmin shout, and the vision crumbled around him, his blurry vision taking in Sangmin in front of him, hands gripping his shoulders gently. “What happened? What did you see?”
> 
> He opened his mouth to explain, but he couldn’t get the words to come. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling hot tears begin to stream down his cheeks. He felt a sob bubbling up in his chest, and he buried his face in his hands as they wracked his body. He was shaking, heart still pounding, and whenever he closed his eyes...blood, his brother’s blood splattered across the darkness.

Tracing his finger through the bristles of the plush carpet beneath him, he stared intently at the board in front of him as he contemplated his next move. He reached for his piece, hand hovering above the board before he made his decision. He glanced slyly up at his opponent, wondering if he was paying attention and would notice if he…

He traced a very sharp line purposefully through the carpet with his free hand, watching as the other’s actions sped up. It was almost comical, but if he laughed, he would catch him. He made note of his brother’s next move as the future played out around him, and thus, he could counteract it before he ever had a chance to try. Satisfied, he traced another line backwards through the carpet, and everything around him reset to the present time. He set his piece back down, and chose to make another move.

“Hey! Seokjin’s cheating again!” his older brother protested, gesturing wildly towards the board as he tried to get the attention of their parents in the room adjacent.

“No, I’m not,” Seokjin shook his head as he denied it, but he didn’t bother to smother the cheeky grin that broke out on his face. He was _totally_ cheating.

“How do you even cheat at chess?” their father asked gruffly, walking over to observe their board and, presumably, ease the tension before a fight broke out. Seokjin’s gaze flitted over to his older brother, watching amusedly as he floundered, trying to find a viable excuse. He couldn’t tell their father that he and Seokjin were superhuman, so there was no way to explain how the cheating had occurred.

“I dunno,” he eventually mumbled. Seokjin decided to keep prodding him; their game had gone a lot quieter than normal, and it was, quite frankly, boring him.

“Yeah,” he agreed with their father, crossing his arms proudly and shooting his brother a smug smirk, “I’ve never cheated. You’re just mad that you always lose.” He narrowed his eyes at Seokjin, puffing up his cheeks in a pout of displeasure.

“Only _because_ you cheat,” he muttered, but gave in after a moment and made his move with a sigh.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Seokjin teased, sliding the last piece needed for his trap across the board. “Checkmate.”

He laughed as his brother threw up his arms with a wordless shout of protest, satisfaction washing over him as he watched his brother attempt to move his king out of check. But alas, it was mate, and his brother eventually gave up, knocking his king over defeatedly.

“Fine,” he groaned. “You win again, Seokjin.”

He clapped, grinning and dancing in his seat in celebration for a moment before helping his brother collect the pieces and clean up the game.

“I don’t understand why you two are so obsessed with _chess_ of all things,” their father said from his spot leaning on the living room door frame. “Don’t you guys have like… _video games_ to play?”

“Well, yeah,” his brother shrugged, glancing down at the carpet with a frown as he mumbled under his breath, “Seokjin always beats me at those, too.”

“Plus, chess is a smart game. Really makes ya think,” Seokjin added, tapping the side of his temple with a wink.

“You guys are weird,” their father chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “I‘ve never heard of high school boys being so obsessed with chess over video games,” he mused as he left the room. Seokjin and his brother shared a glance; it wasn’t that they liked chess that much—it was a long game, and often a boring one that made your head hurt if you thought too intently about every possible direction your opponent could take—but rather that their mother had recommended they pick up the game.

“ _Chess will very effectively teach you quick problem-solving skills you’ll need in the future_ ,” she had insisted the first time she gave the boys a set. “ _You’ll always be two steps ahead of everyone else, which is really useful for us as superhumans in this world_.”

Seokjin himself didn’t care for chess—he figured the only things it really did for him were helping him learn to cheat with his powers and learn to annoy his brother with said cheating ability—but he kept suggesting it whenever they had some free time if only to see what reaction he’d elicit from the other when he won...again.

“You sure you don’t want another go?” he asked cheekily in spite of his indifference, but the vehement denial from his brother was enough for him to let the prospect go. For now.

He was staring off somewhere. Seokjin followed his brother’s eyes, finding them trained on their father’s back as he pulled on a jacket and grabbed his keys, heading out for the night. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, he turned incredulously to Seokjin, exclaiming in a stage whisper, “I can’t believe you continue to use your powers like that right in front of _him_!”

“He’ll never know, my powers are subtle,” he shrugged nonchalantly, watching his brother’s face twist in annoyance.

“But you could still mess up! You know what he’d do if he found out we’re all superhuman,” the insistence in his brother’s tone made Seokjin soften, and he reluctantly caved, agreeing softly.

“You need to be more careful than I do, though. I don’t get why you’re scolding me, _you’re_ the one with the visual abilities.”

“I _realize_ that, Seokjin, thank you,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “And I try my damndest to keep them under wraps.”

Seokjin was certain his brother never tried as hard as _he_ did to keep his powers, powers that weren’t his own, secret. He never brought up to him the number of times he had to reset just to prevent a situation that ended with his brother exposing himself. He had stopped counting once it reached into the hundreds.

“Dinner’ll be ready in a few!” their mother poked her head around the doorway into the living room, but her expression fell to a frown quickly. “What are you boys arguing over now?” she asked with a resigned sigh, stepping into the room to mediate.

“Seokjin keeps using his powers to cheat, and he does it with dad watching!” His brother was quick to tattle, pointing wildly in Seokjin’s direction. He just smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

“Jinnie,” she ran a hand down her face, furrowing her brow with an even heavier sigh. “How many times do I have to warn you before you decide to stop? You’re allowed to use your powers but _only_ when your father isn’t home. We’re all in danger staying here with his stance on superhumans being so...negative, but you boys deserved to grow up with a father, and I worry…”

She didn’t need to finish her sentence for Seokjin to understand. She worried about what he would do if they all left. His father was a perfectly nice person on the surface, but if anything in his life went even the slightest bit wrong, Seokjin was sure even the deadliest demons of Hell would be preferable to his father. It was knowledge that only they, his immediate family, were privy to. None of his friends ever believed that his witty and thoughtful father would be hiding something so dark under the surface.

Of course, they were only ever allowed to come over to his house when his father wasn’t there.

“Promise me, Seokjin,” his mother was speaking again, and he gave her his full attention. “Promise me you’ll be more careful.”

“I—“ he paused, knowing full well he would probably break it before he even promised. Guilt pooled in the pit of his stomach at the sight of his mother’s relieved smile after he mumbled out a reluctant, and insincere, “I will.”

———

The conversation from the night before was quickly forgotten as Seokjin awoke with mere minutes before the first bell sounded at school. He knew he’d get an earful from his father if he ever arrived at school late, so at the risk of disappointing his mother, as soon as he had blinked the sleep from his eyes, he concentrated hard on slowing down time around him. It moved at millionths of the usual speed with his tampering, and he had time to go about his morning and get to school on foot before a minute had even passed.

Such casual use of his powers became more frequent as days passed and blended together. He never arrived late to school, and oftentimes, he would slow down time enough in the mornings that he could go about a whole day of doing whatever he wanted before he had to be there, and everybody was none the wiser.

He realized rather quickly his powers would not only benefit him in the mornings before school, but during school as well. Average grades skyrocketed as he began slowing down time to see others’ answers on tests. He stopped feeling guilty about it after his fourth or fifth perfect score; he was cursed with these abilities, he might as well put them to use.

His friends knew of his surreptitious exploits. They were all superhuman, too—their parents being friends of his mother—and they commended him for them, finding it amusing how easily he could manipulate humankind for his benefit.

“Another perfect score, Seokjin?” Hanjae, a boisterous superhuman with an impressive power of persuasion, asked, clapping him on the shoulder as he joined them at lunch.

“As always,” he grinned, holding out his paper with pride.

“Damn, it’s a shame we aren’t in your class,” Yeonhee whistled. “You’d be helping us, too, right Jinnie?” she inquired, cocking a brow and grinning mischievously.

“As if you’d need help!” Seokjin elbowed her, earning a disgruntled protest from the girl. “You could just _possess_ someone in class and see their answers, then copy them onto your paper.”

She straightened, glancing at him then down at the table in front of them. “Oh...you’re right,” she mumbled, scratching at the back of her neck.

“You seriously never thought of that before?” he laughed at her reaction, and she shoved him away.

“Oh, can it!”

“This is why _I_ ’m the one getting the perfect scores. I’m just the cleverest of all of us,” he leaned back on his seat, crossing his arms in satisfaction at the uproar that erupted among his friends. Even typically quiet Sangmin joined in the protest.

“Who’s the poor kid you keep taking advantage of, anyways?” he inquired, his tired voice betraying disappointment.

“That new kid from Seoul. Super smart and completely oblivious, just like everyone else,” Seokjin stated proudly as if _he_ himself was the super smart kid from Seoul.

Sangmin shook his head, sighing. “If I tell you to stop, you won’t, will you?”

“Probably not.”

“Be careful, man,” he warned, leaning over the table and resting his cheek in his palm. “This could backfire very easily.”

“Thanks, _mom_ ,” Seokjin scoffed. “It’ll be _fine_. Besides, my grades now have finally given my parents something to be proud of me for,” he mumbled, his voice growing low, hoping the din of the others would drown him out. Sangmin shot him a sympathetic look, but the other two didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, by the way, we’re still on for tomorrow, right?” Yeonhee asked, ceasing her complaints suddenly.

“Yeah,” Seokjin nodded, “as far as I know. My dad’s still on his business trip and isn’t s’posed to be back till Sunday night.”

“Nice. We’ll be over, then. Is your big bro gonna be around?” Hanjae questioned, to which Seokjin shrugged a noncommittal response.

“Dunno.”

“Well, whatever. It’s fine if he’s there, your bro’s cool.”

“ _Cool_?” Seokjin scoffed, shaking his head incredulously. What a ridiculous statement. “Maybe in some alternate universe. _I_ ’m the cool one.”

“Yeah, _right_ ,” Yeonhee teased, chuckling at his offended exclamation of “Hey!” He was about to argue with her over it when the blaring of the bell signaling the end of lunch interrupted him. He bade his friends a (begrudging) farewell and headed off to class, the rest of the day passing in a mindless blur.

———

Saturday afternoon, and Seokjin’s home was occupied by three more people than usual. His friends had arrived, and they were engaged in some video game. Twice had his brother poked his head into the living room, asking the four to be more quiet, but quiet wasn’t possible with the level of competitiveness the four shared. And with Seokjin’s father gone, they could use their powers as much as they wanted to sabotage each other.

Seokjin would slow down time to slow his friends’ actions and take advantage of his newfound speed, then Yeonhee would respond by temporarily possessing him and causing his character to run into death. Sangmin never used his powers, but fell victim to Hanjae’s persuading him to throw the match. Superhuman abilities sure made things more interesting, but they also led to a significantly larger number of heated arguments over the outcome of a match of some fighting game.

Eventually, after a scolding from Seokjin’s mother about the volume of their altercation and her threat to unplug the TV, they put the game away, content to just stare vacantly at some mindless television program.

“Yo, Jin,” Yeonhee tried to grab his attention after a while, her gaze never straying from the colorful shapes on the screen.

He hummed in response, languidly glancing back at her.

“How come your character in the video game didn’t slow down, too?” she turned to look at him, furrowing her brow. “I thought only you were unaffected by your time-tampering.”

“Nah,” he shrugged, leaning back on his elbows. “I can control what ends up affected or not. Usually, it is just me though.”

“You don’t talk about your powers a lot, do ya?” Hanjae mused, hanging upside-down off of Seokjin’s couch. “What all _can_ you do?”

“Can you see the future?” Yeonhee cut in, suddenly very interested in the conversation.

“Kind of?” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “First of all, I can speed up and slow down time, which you know. I also can, like…” he paused, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to find the right words, “ _scroll_ through time. I can see images of the past and a possible future, but only in the area where I am.” He didn’t mention his resetting, knowing they'd try to take advantage of it if they knew. He couldn’t be wasting all his energy resetting conversations gone awry or failed exams.

“So you _can_ see the future!” Hanjae exclaimed, flipping off the couch and onto the floor beside Seokjin. “What am I gonna look like in the future?”

Seokjin sighed, and his eyes met Sangmin’s. He sent out a silent plea for him to help him, but the other boy just smirked and motioned towards Hanjae.

“Were you even listening? I can only see a _possible_ future that’ll occur here in my living room.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Do it!” Hanjae nudged him. “I wanna know.”

“Well,” Seokjin paused for a few moments, closing his eyes. “I see...me, kicking you out...and locking the door.”

“Be serious, c’mon,” he shoved him, glaring at Seokjin as he laughed at him. “Don’t make me use my persuasion.”

“Fine, fine,” Seokjin waved him off, “can’t cause any harm by it anyways.”

He sat up and straightened, drawing his knees under him. He drew an invisible line in the air and watched as his surroundings changed. He went through days, months, seasons, and years, watching typical daily life occurring around him. It was mundane, as he expected, and he was about to quit when something caught his eye. He rewinded a bit, and watched his brother, several years older than he was now, and father engaged in a heated argument. It wouldn’t be worth wasting his time watching, except his brother seemed to get too emotional, and as he shouted at their father, all around them sparks of colorful light exploded in the air.

He watched his brother freeze, gulping and beginning to back away. He could almost see the gears turning in their father’s head as he pieced together what had happened. He watched his father attack his brother, beating him until he collapsed into a bloody heap. He watched his mother come running into the room, and upon seeing her son, begin fighting with her husband, who attacked her in turn. Seokjin was frozen, only able to watch in dawning horror as his father called the police, as the police barged into the house, as they dragged his mother and brother away, out into the street. He couldn’t see them, but he could hear two gunshots and lots of shouting.

His chest constricted and he struggled to catch his breath; it felt like he was drowning. His heart was pounding in his ears, pounding, pounding, pounding, louder, louder, _louder_ , until it resembled the sound of the gunshots outside. He grasped the sides of his head and screamed, trying to break himself out of the vision, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t—

“Seokjin!” he heard Sangmin shout, and the vision crumbled around him, his blurry vision taking in Sangmin in front of him, hands gripping his shoulders gently. “What happened? What did you see?”

He opened his mouth to explain, but he couldn’t get the words to come. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling hot tears begin to stream down his cheeks. He felt a sob bubbling up in his chest, and he buried his face in his hands as they wracked his body. He was shaking, heart still pounding, and whenever he closed his eyes...blood, his brother’s blood splattered across the darkness.

He felt someone place a tentative hand on his back, rubbing it in an attempt to soothe him. They were speaking to him, but he couldn’t make out their voice through the sound of his own sobbing.

“It’s...okay, it’s not real,” they were saying softly, but they didn’t know anything. They were wrong. Seokjin swallowed hard, choking out a response.

“It will be.”

“You said it was just a possible future. Maybe it won’t happen?”

Seokjin shook his head again, and the others remained silent as his sobs ran their course. He gulped, trying to collect himself before he spoke up.

“Timelines aren’t really linear, and anything we do can affect them. Usually, the future I see _is_ the one that happens though,” he mumbled between hiccups, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. He kept them there, digging them into his eye sockets as he tried to calm his heart still beating out of his chest.

“What _did_ you see?” Yeonhee asked softly, and he took a shaky breath before responding.

“He killed them,” he stated, dropping his hands into his lap and staring at them. “My father, he— my mom, my brother…”

He was met with stunned silence from the others. As much as their presence was a comfort to him, he was overwhelmed.

“Ca— Can you guys,” he began, his voice growing soft, “go, now? Please?”

“Of course, Jinnie,” Yeonhee affirmed as she stood, beckoning the other two to follow suit. “If you wanna be alone, we’ll go now.”

“We’re here if you need to talk, though, okay?” Hanjae’s voice was uncharacteristically soft and sincere. Seokjin nodded, mumbling his gratitude. The two turned to leave, but Sangmin stayed behind for a moment.

“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, Seokjin, I would recommend reconsidering. It was _hard_ for me to nullify your powers enough to get you out of whatever you were seeing. Be careful; if you plan to change the future, I wouldn’t suggest looking into it again,” he warned before leaving himself, and Seokjin thought for a moment that that was the most the other had ever said to him.

———

For many months after, the events of his vision continued to haunt him, but in time, Seokjin pushed them to the back of his mind. At the end of that year, his brother graduated high school and rushed off to university. In another year, Seokjin followed suit. And a few years passed, and his probable future was almost forgotten.

Seokjin was twenty-one now, and a summer off from college work was ahead of him. The past couple years, he’d returned home for the summer, but this time around, he thought he wanted to spend his summer in Busan staying with a college buddy.

The first two months passed enjoyably; his mother did often text him about missing him and wishing he’d come home, and Seokjin would smile down at his phone and apologize for the nth time. He kept her updated, and he knew she was satisfied enough with that.

It was late in the last month of break when her messages suddenly stopped coming. Seokjin didn’t notice at first, but he soon grew concerned. She kept tabs on him consistently throughout the year, it wasn’t like her to just...vanish.

He tried texting her, but none of his messages were ever read. Then he tried calling, but nobody answered the first dozen times. When someone finally did pick up, it was his father on the other end of the line.

“Seokjin,” he greeted him, his tone icy.

“Hi, dad! Where’s mom? She hasn’t been answering me,” he inquired, choosing to ignore how dangerous his voice sounded on the other end of the line.

“I don’t imagine she ever will again. Tell me, Seokjin: are you also superhuman scum?”

Seokjin froze at that, his phone falling from his hand and shattering on the floor beneath him. Flashes of the vision he saw as a high school junior revisited him, and a pit of dread pooled in his stomach. She couldn’t— She couldn’t be _gone_ , no, that wasn’t right. Not his mother, the one who had sung to him after a nightmare, refusing to leave his side until he fell asleep again. Not his mother, the one who had cradled him when he was sick, impervious to the risk of contracting the illness herself. Not his mother, who he loved so dearly.

“I have to go back,” he whispered, shock numbing his senses. He focused, going through his recent memories, trying to lock onto his most recent flashbulb memory. He found it in the recollection of a morning a few weeks prior; there was nothing special about it, but as he vividly pictured the room, could hear the birds and smell breakfast cooking in the other room over, he found himself there again. He felt drained, but immediately began to gather his things.

“Family emergency,” he told his friend as he rushed to leave. “I have to go back home, to Gwacheon. I’m sorry.”

He was home in a couple hours; he burst through the door, tossing his luggage aside just in time to see his brother thrown against the wall by his father, face bloody and almost unidentifiable. Their father’s attention snapped to Seokjin, and he stalked up to him threateningly.

“Are you one of them too, _boy_?” he spat, cornering him.

“N— No, sir,” he lied, but he could tell his father didn’t believe him. He grabbed him by the collar, and Seokjin desperately clung to his memory of that morning, finding himself back in that room in Busan once again before his father could hit him.

He didn’t bother packing this time, merely got dressed and left without saying goodbye. Just a few minutes earlier, and maybe he could’ve prevented it all. He wished he could just slow down time, but it was much too far for him to walk, and he needed the trains and buses running.

He did slow it once he reached Gwacheon, and he managed to make it home before his brother lost control. Time returned to normal, and Seokjin burst through the front door for the second time. He didn’t see the two arguing, but he heard as they entered the living room. He knew his brother was about to snap, and he rushed up to him, grabbing his arm and pulling him away.

“Seokjin? What the fuck, when did you get here?” he tried to shake him off, eventually sharply freeing his arm from Seokjin’s grip. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Stay out of this.”

“Please, calm down,” he begged, standing in between the two before either could approach the other again. “Can’t we talk this out rationally? We’re all adults here.”

“Shut the fuck up, will you?” his father growled, shoving him out of the way. Seokjin steeled his expression, then tried to push the two apart once again.

“Stop it!” he demanded, earning an elbow to the gut from his brother.

“You don’t know anything, Seokjin, so stay out of it! Why are you even here? Why would anyone ever want to be here with this _bastard_!” he pointed at their father, who was seething. “ _I fucking hate you_!” he shouted, and amidst Seokjin’s desperate protests came the flashes of bright light around them. Another failure; he was shoved to the ground as his father went after his brother. Instead of focusing on that morning, Seokjin tried to vividly picture the moment he was standing in front of the door.

Sure enough, in a moment, he was standing in front of it again. He shoved it open again. And...again, and again, and again. He tried and tried and tried to prevent his brother from exposing himself as superhuman, but he failed again and again and again. He couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t do _anything_. But he couldn’t give up either.

He knew he was at his limit. He wouldn’t have the strength to reset again, so he had to do _something_. He wouldn’t let this end in death. An idea hit him, and he gulped—was it the only way? He wasn’t sure, but it might work.

He took a deep breath, waiting until he heard his brother raise his voice. Then, he opened the door as forcefully as he could, allowing it to slam violently against the wall. Sparks of color erupted from the source of the collision as the sound became light around him. Their father’s attention was on him; he didn’t see that the light had originated from his brother.

“Seokjin…” his father’s voice was low and dangerous. “What was that?”

“Uhhh…” he floundered for an excuse, any excuse. His plan ended there, he had no idea what he was going to do or say to placate his father from that point. “Surprise?” he waved his hands sheepishly. “It’s...a party trick! For a party.”

“What party?”

“For...you?” he shrugged, shrinking down as his father neared him. “Or it’s all a prank! A joke,” he laughed nervously. “You _light_ up my life, sir— See, funny joke?”

He flinched as his father grabbed his collar, slamming his back against the wall behind him. He grabbed at his fist, trying to pry his fingers away.

“What _are_ you, Seokjin? Are you a fuckin’ superhuman?”

Seokjin grimaced, hissing out a “No” through gritted teeth.

“Don’t _lie_ to me,” his father punctuated his sentence by slamming his back against the wall again. Seokjin coughed, wincing at the pain in the back of his head. “Well?” his father demanded, and before Seokjin could answer, a fist collided with his jaw. His father raised his fist again, and Seokjin squeezed his eyes shut.

“I am!” he shouted, panic lacing his voice. “I am superhuman, but please, I haven’t done anything!” he begged, waiting for the next punch. It never came, and his father released him.

“Who else,” he asked, leaning in close to Seokjin’s stinging face. “Your mother? Your brother? Your friends? Your—”

“No!” he locked eyes with his mother, who had just entered the room, over his father's shoulder, and interrupted him, “No! It’s just me, I’m the only one.”

“Are you lying to me?” his father growled. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from superhuman scum like you.”

“I’m not lying!” he insisted, hoping his father wouldn’t pick up on the desperation lacing his voice. “I’m the only one, I swear!”

“Fine,” his father grunted, taking a step back. For a moment, nobody moved a muscle, and Seokjin thought that maybe he was in the clear. But then, his father took a swing at him again. The shock from it sent him reeling, and a follow-up punch sent him to the floor. His father pinned him there, and all Seokjin could do was shield his face as best he could as he tried to struggle away from his father's barrage of blows.

His mother rushed over, and, grabbing at his arm before he could land another blow, she tried to pry him away from Seokjin. “Stop this! That’s your _son_ ,” her shrill voice was pleading, but it fell on deaf ears, and he threw her across the room violently. Seokjin managed to kick him off thanks to her distraction, which only enraged him further.

“Why, you little piece of _shit_ ,” he snarled, stumbling to his feet and responding in turn. His foot collided with Seokjin’s middle once, twice, three times, four, five, six, until the taste of iron filled his mouth and specks of red dotted the carpet with every violent cough. Then his father changed his target, kicking him in the side of the head twice for good measure. Pain exploded through his temples, and his ears rang. Warm blood gushed from his nose; he was sure it was broken.

Through bleary eyes, Seokjin saw his shoe hovering above his face, and closed his eyes, preparing for the fatal blow. He was exhausted, but if only he could slow time right then and there…

He waited.

And he waited.

And he waited, but it still wouldn’t come.

He opened his eyes reluctantly and was still faced with the sight of the sole of his father’s shoe, but it was moving so slowly. It took a moment for Seokjin’s mind, clouded with pain, to catch up to the situation. It had worked, he had just enough strength to slow down time to escape.

He breathed out in relief, taking a moment before struggling to get up. His head was pounding, the world around him spinning. He spat up more blood as he stumbled to his feet. He relied on the wall to limp away and out the door, tripping over the sidewalk and falling to his hands and knees as soon as his support was gone. His forearms were raw and burning from scraping against the concrete, but he still forged on, crawling until he reached a wall he could lean on.

Where was he going? Who could possibly help him now?

He wasn’t even sure where he was anymore, the buildings and street names all blending together. He felt his hold on the passage of time slipping along with his own consciousness. He _had_ to find help, and fast.

Rounding a corner, he was greeted by a familiar sight. A house at the end of the street, with gray paint chipping, that had served as Sangmin’s childhood home. He wondered if his friend was there now, but was sure at the least his superhuman parents would be.

He limped his way there, desperate to reach the door, desperate for _any_ help he could get. He lost his hold on time as he reached the gate; he stumbled through it and fell into a heap, knocking over their trash bins with a loud crash. He didn’t have the strength left to get up again; he didn’t even have the strength to look over when he heard the front door opening. He heard Sangmin’s distant voice before the world faded out:

“Oh, my God, Seokjin!”

———

The next time he awoke, he was in a strange bed in a strange room. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, trying to remember how he got there and where “there” even was. He tried to sit up to look around, but his body screamed in protest. Something felt...off about his vision, and he raised his arms slowly—which was painful enough—to brush at his face. Or, at the bandages covering it. His left eye was bandaged up; that must’ve been what was screwing with his vision. He traced gingerly along the bandages—they were wrapped around his head, held his jaw in place. His nose was taped up with something, and felt undeniably _crooked_ beneath his fingertips. He groaned, bringing his arms back down to rest at his sides. He noticed they were bandaged, too, from his elbows up to his palms.

He didn’t know how long he laid there, mindlessly staring up at the ceiling and watching the patterns of sunlight from the window dance across it, before the door opened softly.

“Oh, Seokjinnie, you’re awake,” a woman’s voice greeted him, and a familiar face entered his line of sight. He tried to smile up at her, but even the slight shift of his lips was accompanied by pain.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Chae,” he responded hoarsely through the pain in his jaw. She shushed him gently, reaching over and brushing her cool hand against his forehead.

“You’re running a fever,” she mumbled with a tsk. “I’ll be right back, okay? I’m sure you have questions, I’ll answer them when I come back.”

He watched her leave out of the corner of his eye, then returned his gaze to the ceiling. How had he gotten there? Why was he in Chae Sangmin’s house? What happened to him? His memories of the day before were hazy; he remembered lights, and pain, and shouting. He remembered desperation, but he couldn’t recall any of the details.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Chae returned as promised, placing a damp cloth on his forehead. He felt the end of the bed dip as she sat down, her eyes, brimming with sympathy, meeting his.

“You’ve been out for three days. We found you outside, unconscious, beaten half to death. Sangmin’s been really worried. We all have been,” she began, her voice still low in volume. Seokjin appreciated it; a throbbing pain had been growing in the back of his head that certainly would’ve been aggravated by sound at a greater volume. “We called your mother that evening. She said your father did this, that he knows you’re superhuman. She and your brother are still safe, but your father is out with police looking for you as we speak. She was relieved to hear you’re alive, and wants you to know that she loves you, but…”

Mrs. Chae trailed off, staring down into her lap, “You have to leave Gwacheon, Seokjin. You can’t stay here, and you can’t come back...it’s too dangerous for you. We’ll keep you hidden until you’re healed enough to go.”

He sighed in relief, glad to hear that his family—his _true_ family, father not included—was safe. But it hurt, deep down, hearing that he couldn’t see them again once he left.

“Thank you…” he choked out, “so much.”

“Of course, dear. I’ll be going now, but I’m sure Sangmin will be by soon. He’ll be glad to hear you’re awake,” Mrs. Chae stood slowly and left him to his thoughts once again.

———

A few weeks passed, and Seokjin was on the mend. He was walking around again and was able to eat normally, though the motion still sparked small jolts of pain in his jaw. The Chaes had been planning for his departure, trying to find somewhere safe for him to go. They were engaged in such a meeting when Sangmin burst into the room, throwing down a pamphlet in front of Seokjin.

“There’s a rising group in Seoul. A safe haven for superhumans and human supporters alike, and word is going around that they’re going to try to advocate for superhuman rights in Korea,” he explained while Seokjin leafed through the pamphlet, glancing over ideologies and contact information.

“I wouldn’t be far away,” he mumbled, setting the pamphlet down for Sangmin’s parents to see.

“We’ll see about contacting them if you want?” Mrs. Chae asked, and Seokjin considered for a moment. It seemed too good to be true. But to hell with it, he needed to go somewhere. He was grateful for their kindness, but he couldn’t keep causing the Chaes such trouble.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d like that. Thank you.”

———

A week or so later, and Seokjin got his answer from the organization. They sent him a bus ticket to Seoul, and the information he’d need. He was going to join them. He gathered a few of his things that his mother had brought in secret, and prepared to go.

He bade Sangmin and his family farewell, thanking them twice, three times over for their hospitality, and then he ventured out under the cover of darkness to catch his bus.

He went over his instructions again on the bus; they said someone would be there to meet him at the bus station in Seoul, and they would guide him. He didn’t know what this someone looked like, but he assumed that he would know when he saw them.

Glittering city lights even in the darkness of the early morning hours greeted him as he dismounted the bus, slinging his one bag of belongings over his shoulder. He paused, sitting down at the bus stop, looking around to see if anyone was there, but he saw nobody. He sighed, pulling out his letter once again. Maybe he had gotten off at the wrong stop…?

“Hey.”

He looked up from the paper at the sound of a boy’s voice. A tall boy with sandy blond hair stood above him, eyes shining in a smile.

“You must be...Kim Seokjin, I presume?” he asked, and Seokjin nodded, pocketing the letter. He stood up, noticing the boy’s extended hand and taking it, shaking it firmly.

“That’s me,” he grinned, relaxing a bit. “So, you’re here as my guide? No offense, but you seem kind of...young.”

“None taken, I am the youngest officer,” he nodded, an amiable smile gracing his face. “Anyways, we should get going. It’s on foot from here.”

The boy turned on his heel, and Seokjin hurried to follow him. As he led him through busy city streets—despite the hour, the roads were still bustling with life—he explained a bit about the group. It was very new, just arising in the past half-decade or so. Many superhumans had already sought refuge there, and as a result, it was taking the shape of a real, official organization. He explained that the base couldn’t be reached by normal humans nor superhumans without the “key,” which is why a guide was necessary.

Seokjin eventually tried to turn the conversation towards the boy; he wanted to know more about him. He learned he was telepathic, and a strong telepath at that. He was nineteen, but would be twenty in the next month, and was from an affluent superhuman family. His mood seemed to plummet after mentioning it, though, and he remained silent the rest of the way.

Eventually, he stopped in front of a dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of the busy city center. The place looked abandoned, and Seokjin wondered if maybe it had all been an elaborate prank.

“Are you sure this is it?” he asked reluctantly, to which the other boy responded with a nod.

“It’s just a facade to protect those inside. One of the leaders has a very unique ability to create little pocket dimensions of sorts. The real organization is hidden in one,” he explained. “Higher-ups just chose this warehouse so it’d have one set location and one set entrance for those with the key.”

He held up his right hand, and it began to glow a faint purple. He reached for the handles of the main doors of the building, pulling them open and revealing a lively space filled with all sorts of marvelous people milling about. It was like a tiny city beyond the doors of the warehouse, entirely hidden from the rest of the world.

“Welcome to Paradise, Kim Seokjin,” the boy gestured to the open doors. “My name is Kim Namjoon, and I’d be happy to show you around.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer, Namjoon,” Seokjin stated, taking his first step into a bright new future for superhumans. 


	3. Gluttony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a child, he had always been terrified of the extensive balconies on each of the floors of the massive department store on the rare occasion his mother would bring him on shopping trips; he hated being able to look down from the ninth floor and see sudden death facing him—should he ever accidentally go toppling over the glass barrier. But now, they were his ticket out of there. He reached for a device hooked on his belt, watching out of his peripheral vision as the guards all drew their guns, probably expecting him to turn and start firing on them. He pursed his lips, dashing forward and leaping up onto the glass barrier. 
> 
> “Sorry to disappoint,” he announced, brandishing his admittedly gun-shaped tool for a moment, “but I believe we’re done here.”

He was in grade school, just a child. He’d fallen down while playing tag in the streets with some of his friends and skinned his knees up. He’d come to his mother in tears, hugging her legs for comfort as he begged for help, and she had practically thrown him off, yelling at his innocent face.

“Don’t _touch_ me, Jeongguk! The bandages are in the bathroom cabinet, you know that.”

He’d been left to handle his bloody knees himself, the sting of the cuts not quite matching the sting of tears in his eyes at his mother’s unwarranted outburst. And the next week, when his older brother had fallen from his skateboard and ended with some minor scrapes on his arms, Jeongguk looked on in silence as his mother fussed over him, carefully bandaging his arms and holding him until his tears had stopped.

He’d gone to his mother after that, questioning why his brother received such special treatment. She’d patted his head awkwardly, offering a half-hearted apology and adding a hesitant, “It’s because…you’re tougher than him.”

Jeongguk at the time accepted that answer, taking his mother’s statement as praise and eating it up. The implication that he was tougher than his older brother left him beaming, and he wouldn’t hesitate to lord it over him whenever he made Jeongguk upset.

Which was frequently, as he aged. He admired his older brother—even if he, Jeongguk, _was_ tougher than him, his brother was still the most _awesome_ person in his eyes. He had lots of older friends, and was allowed to go to the movies on his own, and he had a plethora of video games and comic books Jeongguk often asked to borrow.

However, he was always met with denial. He asked to play video games with him, and his brother would slam his bedroom door in Jeongguk’s face. He’d snag the most recent issue of a comic book out of his room, intending just to borrow it for a bit. The first time his brother had found out, he’d snatched it out of Jeongguk’s hands and slapped him for it. After some initial shocked tears, Jeongguk had taken his brother’s reaction as a challenge, sneaking into his room more and more often to steal a comic book or two. Acting so surreptitiously and knowing how mad his brother would be if he found out made Jeongguk tingly all over, and at first, he’d often blow his cover just because he couldn’t help but giggle when his brother discovered something to be missing. Of course, his face always suffered when his brother found out. It never deterred him though; how else was he supposed to get a chance to read the newest editions of his favorite comics? His mother vehemently refused to buy him any for himself, insisting it wasn’t necessary to have two copies of the same comic in one house.

When it came to his brother’s friends, Jeongguk, as many younger siblings do, wished to hang out with them and his older brother. He’d ask to go to the movies with them, or to join them at the park and ride his skateboard with them, or to hang out in general when they were over. Denial, every time. His brother’s friends didn’t even seem to be so adverse to it, often cooing over how “cute” he was—which he was _not_ —so he couldn’t understand why his brother was so quick to turn him down.

His friends at school had said that it was just how older brothers were, that they were all mean and quick to ignore their little brothers. But something in Jeongguk told him it was different for him, and no matter how much he rationalized that it was normal, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t.

For one, it wasn’t just around his friends that his brother snubbed him. He was sure he could count on one hand the number of _actual_ conversations he and his brother had partaken in. Eventually, he gave up trying. At home, Jeongguk was actively ignored, not even just by his brother, but to some extent, his parents too. He wasn’t sure _why_ he was so frequently given the silent treatment, but it didn’t bother him. Even if his brother didn’t want to talk to him, his mother was, more often than not, open to holding him in her warm embrace and listening to him talk about his day—about the lazy cat he passed on his way to school or the jokes his friends told at lunch. She listened to him, nodding along, but there was always a distant look in her eyes.

She was much more approachable than his dad. A silent type in general, it became infinitely more apparent when Jeongguk was involved that he did _not_ want to talk with him much. An obligatory “good morning” or “goodbye” was about all that Jeongguk ever heard out of him. But Jeongguk still tried his best to connect with his dad, and after some time, he thought that—maybe—it was actually working. His father’s demeanor would soften in his presence, and he stopped getting up and leaving the room when Jeongguk started to talk to him.

He was struggling with homework when his father first spoke to him for real. He had ventured to ask for some help with his math, and knowing his father to have some sort of fancy math-related job, he figured he was the best option to go to. Even though his brother, just having had the class a few years ago, surely would be able to help, he didn’t dare disturb him while he was in the middle of some video game.

“Hey, Dad,” Jeongguk had approached him meekly, waiting for him to look up from his book before holding out his open math book. “Can you help me? I don’t get this.”

His father squinted to see his page, then returned to his book, mumbling out a curt, “Google it, Jeongguk. That’s what Google is for.”

“Okay!” he exclaimed, trying not to sound as happy as he was about getting more than two words out of his father. “Thank you, Dad!” But it was useless advice; Jeongguk couldn’t look it up, he wasn’t allowed on their bulky old computer, and he certainly wasn’t allowed a phone. He was back at square one, so he just guessed on all his problems and called it a night.

He did that on a lot of his schoolwork, with an average degree of success. Despite his penchant for guesswork, school came easy to Jeongguk. He didn’t care to be the best, satisfied with average grades. From the very beginning, he never needed bother to try very hard to achieve them.

It wasn’t that he was particularly smart. He was just a very _good_ test taker, even when he didn’t study. In fact, he was better when he didn’t study. He guessed his way through tests, and through some incredible luck, he achieved solid B’s and C’s on everything.

His parents seemed proud enough of him, rarely bothering to ask about his grades in the first place. His brother had an equally average education career, so it wasn’t like he had exceedingly high expectations to live up to. He was fine with that, content to breeze through school by guessing.

As he got older, however, entering into middle school, grades became a more significant topic with his mother. Jeongguk supposed his brother had finally cleaned up his act, if the sudden nagging of his mother was any indication. Not interested in giving up his relaxed attitude towards school, Jeongguk had incited numerous arguments over it, his back-talking clearly getting on his mother's nerves. He’d hoped it would annoy her enough to stop asking, but eventually, when she had enough, she began to just send him to his room.

It was around that time that Jeongguk began to spend more time in his room in the evenings than with his family. It wasn’t of his own choice; even for minor disagreements or just if his mother was particularly touchy that day, he’d wind up in his room, alone and hungry, instead of at dinner with his family. And it was boring. With no phone, no comics, no games, no books, nothing but his homework and four gray walls, Jeongguk figured the emptiness in his chest was a result of his impossible boredom.

He began to sneak home books from the school library, and when he was confined to his room, he’d take them out, drawing from them as much entertainment as he could. His typical choices were adventure stories, with heroes and great battles, but he ran through the library’s tiny supply rather quickly.

The last of those books to really pique his interest was one on superhumans. Living in a world populated with them, Jeongguk of course knew of the people with cool powers living right under his very nose. The book detailed the genetics that made someone superhuman, and, significantly more interesting to Jeongguk, possible abilities a superhuman might possess and practical applications for them. He thought it would be awesome to be superhuman, to be _special_ like them. He started to imagine what it would be like to have powers of his own; maybe he’d be able to fly! or see in the dark, or make everybody in the _world_ like him.

With his reading supply depleted, he needed something else to do. He took up art for a while, spending a weekend painting his walls only to be scolded harshly by his mother and forced to paint over them again. He enjoyed music class at school, and for a brief time, he’d brought his ugly, plastic, school-issued recorder home with him, practicing and coming up with songs of his own before his father had stormed up and snapped the thing in two to “stop the incessant racket.” In his final year of middle school, his school had begun implementing some new classes that caught his attention—technology-based courses that practically left him drooling. His intrigue with them eventually took on the role of a new form of entertainment for him in the evenings.

He had begun by disassembling the old television stored in his attic, using the parts to create some purposeless monstrosity that barely functioned. It was something to occupy his time and suffice as a distraction from the empty walls of his tiny room. Eventually, his interest grew, and he found himself needing new parts and tools for crazy inventions of his own. He’d asked his mother once if she’d take him out shopping for some, but he was met with vehement denial. She wouldn’t even lend him the money to buy it on his own.

Not wanting to give up on his hobby, Jeongguk decided then to sneak out for the first time and just… _take_ what he needed. Running away from an angry old shopkeeper that evening had been the most fun he’d had in his life, and he found himself venturing out more and more frequently to steal things he needed and things he didn’t.

His mother discovered the mess it made in his room, however, and demanded he throw it all away. He’d obliged at first, but he just relocated everything into a little hideout in the form of an abandoned house that he’d claimed, newly-discovered as a result of a dare.

With the new space, and just as much time on his own, Jeongguk dived headfirst into inventing things on his own. And if his first venture into a life of crime left him so energized with enjoyment, Jeongguk figured he might as well put his creations to use and use them to acquire pieces and money he needed through illegal means. What had sparked his fascination with technology and his affinity for shoving individual pieces together to create some franken-gadget for his own nefarious use, he wasn’t sure, but he had his suspicions. It certainly wasn’t just his classes at school, as they championed practical things with practical use. His bordered on fantastical, and in time he understood his motivation. Superhumans. Jeongguk was still absolutely fascinated by them. To possess incredible powers beyond the capabilities of normal people had become his dream.

He was human, and that made being something _more_ all the more desirable. So to make up for his own disappointing lack of abilities, he invented. He made himself “superhuman” through the fancy tools he possessed.

The more he stole, the more Jeongguk found himself needing it. It became like a drug to him as he continued into high school, and when the itch in the back of his neck and the twitch of his fingers started again, he found himself making botched excuses to leave his friends in the middle of hanging out or skip out on classes just to go and _steal_ something to satisfy that burning desire deep in his chest. Already low grades dropped to failing, and Jeongguk just couldn’t bring himself to care. It gave his mother something to talk about to him, at least. Conflicts with him over grades like they had in the past started again, and now reports of cutting class added fuel to the fire.

Her nagging didn’t sway him, however, in fact, it only motivated him more to continue his illegal escapades. He grew bolder in his targets, and the thought of continuing to steal just for parts was completely wiped from his mind.

No longer taking things out of necessity and lack of funds, and no longer satisfied with just pickpocketing here and there, or shoplifting a bag of candy on a whim, he set his sights on bigger fish. Expensive things on highly-guarded display became his target, and in time, he accumulated a large surplus of pricy jewelry too gaudy for his taste and electronics he didn’t really need after he’d stolen a phone for himself.

He sold it all, and money became of no consequence to him.

———

“ _GET THE HELL BACK HERE WITH THAT, YOU LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT_!”

Alarms blaring from every direction and the panic of the masses nearly drowned out the security guard’s shouting after him as he weaved through crowds of people just trying to get some shopping done. He glanced back over his shoulder, watching the middle-aged man’s face turning a bright red from exertion as he struggled to keep up with him. He looked like a tomato, and Jeongguk couldn’t help but laugh before he turned his full attention back towards escaping the electronics floor of the damn department store.

He heard the security guard pause behind him and call for backup, and had this been his first time, he might’ve worried. Fortunately, it was far from his first rodeo when it came to daytime robbery.

He reached the escalator down to the lower floor, watching as a security guard positioned himself at the base, waiting for him, and another began climbing up the adjacent escalator from the lower floor to the upper one. He waited until she was near the top of the escalator before he leapt up onto the railing, not daring to look down as he was seven floors up, and slid down, kicking off as he neared the bottom and narrowly avoiding the first guard’s grasp as he jumped over him. His feet hit the floor behind the man, and Jeongguk took off again, dodging panicked shoppers in his path, clutching his satchel filled with stolen electronics and various technological paraphernalia.

Security guards were already waiting for him at the next set of escalators, more than he had expected, and he skidded to a stop, watching as the first security guard joined the other two and surrounded him on the other side. His lips quirked in a smirk beneath his mask; this conquest had proven more interesting than the last several. However, the guards had far from won.

As a child, he had always been terrified of the extensive balconies on each of the floors of the massive department store on the rare occasion his mother would bring him on shopping trips; he hated being able to look down from the ninth floor and see sudden death facing him—should he ever accidentally go toppling over the glass barrier. But now, they were his ticket out of there. He reached for a device hooked on his belt, watching out of his peripheral vision as the guards all drew their guns, probably expecting him to turn and start firing on them. He pursed his lips, dashing forward and leaping up onto the glass barrier.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he announced, brandishing his admittedly gun-shaped tool for a moment, “but I believe we’re done here.”

The guards all rushed to converge on him, and that’s when he jumped off the barrier, watching as certain death in the form of the hard floors of the first level rapidly approached. He waited until he had fallen past the third level before twisting in midair and firing, the hooked end of the line of his grappling gun catching on the railing of the second level balcony, allowing him to swing safely to the first floor. Innocent shoppers scattered as he landed smoothly in their midst, clearing his way to the exit. He retracted his grappling hook, pausing for just a moment to hook it back on his belt before making his way to the large exit doors.

He groaned when he saw what waited for him there: more security guards, guns already drawn and trained on him. He gulped, a passing thought of uncertainty crossing his mind before he buried it down beneath overwhelming false confidence. He _was_ going to make it out of this one alive, thank you very much. He always did.

He adjusted his hood on his head before approaching the small crowd, an unmistakable swagger in his step. It was feigned; he couldn’t let them see how nervous he was. One misstep, and he would be swiss cheese on the floor. It almost made him regret skipping calculus for this.

“So,” he swallowed the waver in his voice as he began, watching them stiffen at the sound, “we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Whichever you’d like; both end in me leaving here unharmed.”

“Relinquish the stolen goods, get down on your knees, and put your hands behind your head!” one of the guards, stepping forward, demanded—he was clearly the ringleader.

Jeongguk hummed thoughtfully, bringing a finger up to tap against his lips beneath his mask. After a moment, he pretended to reach his conclusion, “I’m going to have to politely decline, mister.”

The first gunshot came without warning; reacting just barely in time, Jeongguk charged forward, weaving through the gunfire littering his path to freedom. He felt them whiz past his skin; it was a miracle none landed their marks.

Dodging bullets wasn’t even his biggest challenge, however; it was making it through the wall of four security guards—yes, he had counted—to get to the door. With a rush of adrenaline and his inexplicably stellar physical capabilities, he was able to quickly dispatch most of those in his way, though he probably shouldn’t have been. He definitely wasn’t quick enough to topple their ringleader though, and he found himself pinned to the floor, staring down the barrel of a gun directed at the center of his forehead.

“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot,” the man warned, but Jeongguk picked up on the slight waver in his voice and the subtle shaking of the hand holding the gun.

“Will you?” Jeongguk decided to challenge, unable to prevent his own nerves from bleeding through his tone. “You’ll kill me?”

“If you give me a reason to…”

“But I’m just a kid!” Jeongguk exclaimed, reveling in the hesitance in the man’s voice. “P— Please,” he stuttered, turning his face away, “I’ll return the stuff. I’ll cooperate.” Lies easily escaped his lips as he played up his terror, but only just barely. “Just please…d— don’t kill me.”

As the man’s face softened with reluctance, Jeongguk took advantage of the moment to bring his leg up and sharply knee the man in the groin. In the seconds that followed, time seemed to slow down. His kick landed, and the man groaned, evidently squeezing the trigger of his gun as he reacted, the gun discharging. Jeongguk squeezed his eyes shut at the sound, expecting everything to come to a quick and bitter halt, but nothing came. A misfire? Shock was apparent on the guard’s face, and, mingling with the pain of Jeongguk’s offensive, it left him frozen. Jeongguk was quick to take advantage of his opening to escape, stumbling onto shaky legs and bolting through the door.

He made his way across busy streets and through clusters of people, who were oblivious to the occurrence within the department store, until he reached an alley a few blocks away. He ducked into its cover just in time to watch police cars speeding by with sirens screaming, heading in the direction of the department store. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, then headed deeper into the alley, finding his motorcycle still intact and exactly where he’d left it. Mounting and securing his satchel, he revved it and sped back the way he had come, taking back roads and alleyways to avoid the major roadways inevitably littered with police as they searched for him.

As soon as he was far enough away, he let out a victory yell, the wind on his face and the thrill of a successful robbery coming together and contributing to his rush of adrenaline. Adrenaline—that’s always what it had been about. Stealing things in broad daylight, it was always for the sake of adrenaline. Daily life was boring, school was boring, his home life was boring, even his friends were _boring_. Nothing made him feel as alive as thievery for the hell of it did. And well, it wasn’t entirely without purpose—he did sell the stuff. He had plenty of buyers lined up for his current haul; his eyes wandered to his satchel at his side for a moment, and his lips quirked into a grin.

Then he felt himself swerve, and his gaze snapped back onto the road before him. The road that soon melted into familiar surroundings—the close-knit houses of his neighborhood. He rode past them, a little bit beyond the reach of what was totally familiar to him, and pulled up into the overgrown driveway of a dilapidated old house liberally decorated with yellow “condemned” tape. He pulled aside the rotting boards meant to be blocking his way through the back entry of the building and slipped into the darkness of the old house.

What had once been the location of childhood urban legends of deadly murders and vengeful hauntings, which, admittedly, had terrified him at the time, had become his favorite hideout. A place for him to escape the monotony of daily life and go about his business without the prying eyes of his parents or brother.

Dust kicked into the air as he shuffled across loose floorboards, hanging in the stagnant air within. Sure, it was a bit stifling, the electricity didn’t really work, and the deafening silence was only ever interrupted by suspicious creaking that never failed to make him jump halfway out of his skin, but it was his. Or at least, Jeongguk considered it _his_.

He dropped his satchel onto an old loveseat in the front room, coughing as more dust escaped into the air and permeated through his mask, which he finally removed. He set about activating a makeshift generator he’d built himself, chewing at his lip in concentration until a couple dim lights sputtered to life. Then he plopped down into the dust beside his satchel and began to sort its contents.

They mostly consisted of cell phones, which he would sell for a considerable profit, but he had also managed to snag a few things for himself. He separated them and, setting everything else aside, began to dismantle them—what he really needed was inside. Circuit boards and wires and all manner of various tiny pieces he’d need for his current project, which he pulled out from under the loveseat.

He had hoped for a chance to continue it, but, glancing at the time, he realized how late it had gotten. His mother would wonder where he’d gone, and that was a can of worms he couldn’t open. With a sigh, he dumped his disassembled parts into the box with the rest of his incomplete creation, brushed the dust off his jeans, and headed back out, electing to travel on foot—he was only a few blocks away from home anyways. Plus, his parents of course…didn’t _exactly_ know about his illegal exploits and they weren’t exactly aware that their son had bought—okay, _stolen_ —a motorcycle for himself.

He paused before his front door when he reached it, vacillating between climbing in through a window—avoiding his mother’s barrage of questions for a bit—or just entering through the door like any normal person would and dealing with the interrogation immediately.

“Jeongguk!” he heard his mother's shrill shout from inside; evidently, he had taken too long to decide and she had seen him through one of the front windows. He locked eyes with her through the glass, and he watched her storm over to the door and throw it open. “Jeon Jeongguk!” she reached out to grab at his collar, but froze with her arm halfway through the door, an unreadable expression darkening her features. She retracted her hand sharply, taking a step back and demanding, “Get in here!”

He obliged, if only to avoid angering her further, stepping beyond the threshold and staring blankly at her as she went off.

“You have some explaining to do,” she stated, crossing her arms as she stared him down through narrowed eyes. “The school called me today. Said you were skipping your last three classes, _then_ you won’t answer your phone no matter how many times I call.” Jeongguk reached for his phone, trying to subtly glance down to check it. Sure enough, notifications for approximately twelve missed calls and forty-four text messages from his mother stared up at him.

“Hey! Are you listening to me?” his mother stepped forward, snapping her fingers right in front of his face to get his attention. “Where the _hell_ were you? Were you skipping like the school says?”

“No…” he scoffed, trying to act nonchalant. “I was just over at Minjoon’s house; I forgot to tell you we were gonna…” he paused for a moment, trying to come up with a believable lie, “work on a project! Yeah, work on a project. I silenced my phone so I wouldn’t get distracted.” That part was partially true.

“That’s funny, ‘cause I _called_ Minjoon’s mother, and she said that you weren’t there. In fact, I think she mentioned that Minjoon claimed to have seen you leave halfway through calculus and not return. So, if that’s not where you were, care to explain?” He was caught in his lie, but he couldn’t explain where he really was.

“Okay, so what if I was skipping? It’s my last year, it doesn’t _matter_ anymore,” he shrugged; he didn’t _really_ believe that, but it was easier to pass off his motive as apathy rather than kleptomania.

“Jeongguk,” she sighed exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Just…go to your room. You missed dinner, and I’m not making anything for you.”

Jeongguk didn’t even bother to protest, knowing it would get him nowhere and that his sentence was considerably light in comparison to his crime. She’d punished him much more harshly for lesser offenses in the past. However, it did occur much more frequently that Jeongguk was barred from dinner for seemingly insignificant misconducts. He spent a _lot_ of time in his room upon his mother’s word.

She always seemed like she was walking on eggshells around him lately, and he couldn’t get the unreadable expression on her face as she greeted him at the door out of his head as he trudged his way to his room. He flopped down on his bed, staring at the minimal space. His room didn’t look like a teenager’s—bare walls and spotless floors, everything painted in grey. When he considered it, it almost looked like the room had never been lived in. That’s what his hideout was for; it was decorated to _his_ liking with what he could scrounge for. Despite the musty air and constant layer of dirt coating everything, he much preferred it there. But with all of his things there, he had nothing else to do in his bedroom but stare blankly ahead and count the cracks in his walls. Eventually, his boredom and the events from the day overcame him, and he fell into a restless sleep.

The painful grumbling of his stomach woke him some time later. He wasn’t sure of the time, but by the darkness outside his window, he knew it must’ve been late. His mother had refused him dinner, but she never said he couldn’t make his own. Deciding to sneak into the kitchen, Jeongguk slipped off his house shoes, socks muffling his soft footfalls, and treaded carefully out of his room. He was glad his brother was off at college; if he had been home and caught him sneaking around, he would’ve told their parents for sure. He loved to get Jeongguk in trouble.

He was successful in reaching the kitchen; it was as he was rummaging through the refrigerator for a carton of banana milk that he heard his parents’ voices approaching. He ducked behind the fridge, hoping he’d be lucky enough that they wouldn’t see him as they passed.

“What are we going to do about him?” he heard his mother’s tearful voice, and assuming it was about him, he decided to push his luck and listen in on their conversation. He trailed after them as they sat down in the room adjacent, and he paused, back plastered against the wall behind the sofa. He glanced around the corner, catching a glimpse of the back of his dad’s head.

“What is it now?” he heard his father ask, his voice soft as he comforted his crying mother.

“He— He’s been acting up. More so than usual lately,” she explained. “He skipped school today again, and for much longer this time around. I love him; he’s our son, but I just feel like I can’t _control_ him. I’m so scared of what he could do.”

Jeongguk gulped, and for a moment, it felt like his breath wouldn’t come. His mother was… _scared_ of him? But why? It hurt to hear, and he almost wanted to run away, but his father’s voice reeled him back into their conversation.

“He still doesn’t know?” he asked, and Jeongguk watched the back of his mother’s head as she shook it.

“As far as I know,” she mumbled, “but there’s no telling when he’ll find out. I’m terrified to punish him for his actions—I don’t want him to get angry and… _hurt_ me or you. He’s dangerous…”

His mother trailed off, her answer leaving him with even more questions. What didn’t he know? He wasn’t _dangerous_ ; sure, he acted out a lot, but…he didn’t think that made him someone to feared by his own parents. It twisted his heartstrings, and he grasped at his chest, sharply looking away and fixating his gaze on the condensation forming on his abandoned carton of banana milk on the counter across from him.

While his parents’ fear caused an ache in his chest, the next words to escape his mother’s lips drove a knife straight through it.

“Sometimes I wish he hadn’t been born, or that we had…”

The rest of mother’s statement was lost to him as he bolted back to his room, uncaring of his heavy footsteps echoing down the halls. Hot tears burned tracks down his face, and he had to cover his mouth to stifle the sobs threatening to escape his throat. Was he the best son in the world? Probably not, but did that really warrant his parents wishing he never existed?

He heard footsteps approaching his room, and he slammed the door, planting his feet and holding it firmly in place with his back to the painted-gray wood.

“Jeongguk,” his mother’s voice on the other side was faint. He watched the door handle twisting as she tried to open the door, but he stood steadfast, barring her entry.

“Open this door right now, Jeongguk!” his father’s voice joined his mother’s on the other side, and after a few harsh bangs on the door, Jeongguk was knocked off balance and his door was thrown open.

He refused to meet his parents’ gazes, staring at the wall beside them through vision bleary with tears. Nobody moved for a moment, and the silence was suffocating.

“I scare you?” he asked after a bit, his voice faint. No answer came, and he didn’t need one. He’d already heard the words come out of his mother’s mouth. It just felt...unreal, like he needed the confirmation. The silence was enough.

“Mom…Dad…” his voice shook, and he looked up to see them staring shamefully at anything but him. “Wh— Why?”

He wanted to reach out to them, wanted to be held and told that it was all some sort of sick joke, an elaborate plan to get him to behave. He would, he would…he’d do anything to hear that their words had been lies. But as he stepped forward, he watched his mother stumble backwards, a panicked expression twisting her visage.

“Mom…” he ventured to take another step towards her, a reluctant arm reaching out for her.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” she hissed, slapping his hand away and recoiling sharply.

His hand stung, and he stared down at it in shock for a moment before pushing past them and escaping into the cool stillness of the darkened world outside. He ran; he ran and ran and ran, unsure of where his feet were taking him, unclear of where he was through his blurred vision.

Yellow tape and dark windows eventually entered his vision—of course he would come here. He climbed through the loose boards and collapsed onto the dusty floor of the condemned house he had taken up partial residence in.

He wished he could just sit there and cry, but his tears were spent, just prickling in his eyes as his breath came in ragged gasps.

“ _Don’t_ touch _me_.”

“ _Don’t_ touch _me_.”

“ _Don’t_ touch _me_ ,” she had said, and something in the back of his memory told him it wasn’t the first time.

Jeongguk stood suddenly, kicking over a table with a hoarse yell.

 _Why_?

The question flooded his thoughts and burned itself into his brain.

 _Why_?

Why did his mother say she… _feared_ him? He wasn’t dangerous, was he? Sure, he got into his fair share of trouble, but he’d never, _ever_ , hurt his beloved family. So, what had made them hate him? Was he just not good enough? He could’ve tried harder at school, he could’ve stopped skipping, he could’ve…

He collapsed on the dusty loveseat, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve. He let his arm fall, dangling off the side as he stared up at the moldy ceiling. His fingertips traced against his box, and he reached down to pull it out. He stared down at the mess of wires and pieces inside, then took the incomplete device out and smashed it, crushing it under his heel for good measure.

He’d taken up inventing for fun, as a means to occupy time that would be otherwise spent being bored and sleeping. But now, thinking back on it, he realized it was a little more than that. The neglect, the avoidance…maybe deep down, he was wishing that there was something _special_ about him, something that made them take notice of him. Maybe they wouldn’t hate him if he were special.

Would they care if he never came home? He scoffed at the notion; they’d be ecstatic. And that hurt. It cut so deeply, only cut deeper the more his thoughts focused on it.

“ _I wish he hadn’t been born_ …”

Her voice lingered in his mind. He needed to drown it out, to stifle it somehow. A familiar urge washed over him, and Jeongguk reached for his mask.

He didn’t have anything particular in mind, he just knew he needed to _steal_. He needed to take something, to satisfy that urge and to drown out the cutting words of his mother.

He marched down the streets of Busan in the dead of night, not sure of where he was heading. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just…away. He was sure he’d find something that caught his eye eventually, something to covet and steal and satisfy that desire that left his fingers twitching.

He hadn’t been paying any attention, though, when a voice startled him out of his thoughts—male laughter, loud and echoing from across the street. Something about it unsettled him, and his hair stood on end. He glanced up, searching for the source, gaze finally landing on an older man with nasty, greasy hair standing beneath a streetlight. His easy smile disgusted Jeongguk as he stared down a pair of boys—they looked about his age, and were huddled in front of a train schedule plastered on a sign outside the Busan train station. He didn’t realize he’d come so far, and now, he wasn’t sure what he had stumbled upon, but something deep down told him not to get involved. It made him uncomfortable though, watching the pull of the man’s scarred lips as he spoke.

Jeongguk watched as he seemed to step closer, his words too faint for him to make out. One of the boys seemed to dislike whatever he was saying, however, as he reached out for the other’s hand and pulled him away. The grin that spread across the man’s face sickened Jeongguk; his predatory eyes seeming to swallow the boys whole in their gaze. Jeongguk’s lips quirked in disgust, and watching the uneasy way the boys glanced between each other. Finally fed up with the man’s borderline predatory behavior and, deciding to ignore every warning in his brain that was screaming at him to just mind his own business, Jeongguk made his way over, stomping purposefully across the empty street.

“Hey!” he shouted, making no effort to conceal his anger. “Back off, you disgusting scumbag!” he demanded, stepping between the man and the two boys. Jeongguk scowled at him as he was greeted with a sneer.

“Stay out of this, kid,” the man hissed, his eyes narrowing as they scanned Jeongguk dangerously.

“Nah, I don’t think I will,” he shrugged as he crossed his arms, trying to put up a front of being entirely unfazed.

“I really think you should stay out of this,” the man warned, stepping closer to Jeongguk and getting up in his face. “You’re going to regret it.”

“I think _you’ll_ be the one to regret it if you pick a fight with me,” Jeongguk played up his air of false confidence, lifting his gaze and staring down the older man with an easy grin.

“Get _out_ of my way, kid!” he demanded, shoving Jeongguk aside and stalking after the two. Jeongguk grabbed his arm, clamping down like a death vice.

“Back the _fuck_ off, creep,” Jeongguk’s voice was cold, deadly, and he tried to keep it from wavering as the man’s piercing gaze bored into him.

He didn’t see the fist coming until it collided with his nose. Jeongguk stumbled backwards, holding his bleeding nose as the man landed another punch to the side of his jaw. He felt his body hit harsh pavement, his forearms scraping against ground as he tried to break his fall.

“I’ll regret it, eh, kid?” the man taunted with a harsh laugh, bending down to grab at his collar and roughly hoisting him up.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk choked out as the man’s hands found their way to his neck, “you will.” He clawed at them, kicking out at the man feebly as he felt his head growing lighter. Through some stroke of luck, he felt his foot land, and the man’s grip loosened as he stumbled backwards. He used his chance to pry himself free, landing uneasily on his feet. The man was bent over, gripping at his stomach as he tried to find his balance. Jeongguk didn’t wait for him to steady himself, dashing forward and tackling him to the ground. It was Jeongguk’s turn to grab at his collar, lifting him up enough to smash the back of his head down against the pavement.

Jeongguk gritted his teeth, ignoring the flow of blood from his nose as it burned a hot trail down his lips and dripped from his chin. He raised a fist, hesitating for just a moment before he struck the man’s face. He landed a few more punched before his moment of hesitation caught up to him.

He heard a click beneath him, and suddenly, something cold was being pressed into his chest. The man smirked through his battered face, bloodied teeth staring up at him. Jeongguk gulped, drawing his arm back and freezing.

“Stop,” the man demanded, pushing forward with the handgun at Jeongguk’s chest. “That’s a good boy,” he cooed as he coaxed Jeongguk off of him, whose mind was racing, trying to come up with a way out of the situation. He glanced behind the man, eyes locking with one of the boys’, his blond hair shining beneath the light of the street lamp. The fear shining in them struck deep in his chest, and he knew he had to win. He was tempting fate, but an idea struck—this was the second time a gun had been pointed at him in the span of twenty-four hours, and he escaped the first time, why not again?

He allowed himself to be forced back onto his feet, backtracking in accordance with the man’s pushing for a bit before he darted forward, just barely dodging as the man fired. He heard the piercing scream of one of the boys, but forced himself to ignore it as he pushed on. Jeongguk grabbed the man’s wrist, forcing his arm to point the gun upwards, a bullet grazing his cheek as he fired again. He ignored the pain exploding in his face as he tried to wrench the gun out of his hands, he ignored the way he grabbed at his hair, yanking his head back as he tried to drag Jeongguk away.

He was off-balance; Jeongguk could see that as his gaze drifted from the gun he was wrestling for to the unsteady position the man had put himself in as he leaned forward just a bit too far. Jeongguk took advantage of it, pulling at his wrist and kneeing him in the stomach as he fell forward. He lost his grip on the gun, and Jeongguk snatched it up quickly. Stepping away, he allowed the man to eat the pavement at his feet. It was his turn to point the gun down at the man.

“It’s over,” he stated, breathing heavily. The man tried to push himself up, but Jeongguk stomped down on the back of his head, grinding down his heel and grimacing at the loud crunch that followed. He dropped his arm as the man fell limp, clicking the handgun’s safety back into place and tucking it into his belt. He landed one good kick to the man’s face for good measure, then, satisfied, he sunk to his knees, sucking in ragged breaths.

Jeongguk glanced upwards as the blond boy approached him, eyeing his hand extended towards him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and Jeongguk froze for a moment before reaching up and taking his hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

“Yeah, I think so,” he breathed, wiping at his nose and wincing as pain bloomed through his face. He glared down at the blood on the back of his hand, desperately wiping it off on his jeans. “Are you guys alright?” he inquired, glancing back up at the boy, finding his eyes drawn especially to his vibrant yellow hair.

“We are fine now, thanks to you,” he answered; what he said next, however, caused Jeongguk to blanch, eyes widening in shock. “Your powers are really amazing!” he exclaimed. “So subtle, but really useful.”

“P— Powers?” he stuttered, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean… _my_ _powers_? I— I…” he trailed off, trying to process the implication of what he was saying. “I don’t have…”

“It’s one of my powers to be able to tell,” the boy stated, explaining how unnatural it was that he was able to even make it out of the scuffle alive. According to him, Jeongguk shouldn’t have been able to dodge those bullets. As he was speaking, the other boy approached them, stopping and staring over the blond’s shoulder.

“It’s the way they moved around you,” he stated, his voice cold. Jeongguk watched in confusion as he narrowed his eyes at him, his next words coming out much harsher as he snapped. “If you didn’t know you had powers, why would you step in like that? Are you stupid?”

“I— I don’t know why,” he admitted. “I saw that creep harassing you, and I just…I couldn't just stand and watch, y’know? I couldn’t just keep walking, knowing he could have some horrible intentions. Plus, I get myself into a lot of trouble all the time,” he mumbled, unsure of why he was so ready to tell… _strangers_ about his kleptomania-driven escapades. “Anyways,” he tried to change the subject, not really wanting to go into his burglarizing career and end up arrested, “what are you guys doing out here so late? And what did that guy want?”

“We were trying to get on the last train to Seoul tonight, but we definitely missed it because of that jerk. He wanted us to join some ring of some sort,” the canary-haired boy explained, sparking some recognition in Jeongguk. He couldn’t remember, but he thought the mention of “some ring” sounded familiar. Thankfully, the other boy cut in with the explanation Jeongguk couldn’t reach.

“Fighting,” he stated, his voice sounding on-edge. “They take superhumans underground and fight them like dogs.” Jeongguk nodded slightly; that was right, he _had_ heard about the extensive fighting rings, but only vaguely. He still wasn’t entirely convinced they weren’t just some urban legend and that the man hadn’t just been using it as a cover to lure them somewhere else for some other, equally horrific reason. He didn’t voice his disbelief, though, sensing the second boy’s unease and not wanting to strike a nerve. Plus, the first boy had begun speaking again, buying immediately into the second's claims.

“You really saved us then. All we want to do is make it to that big organization in Seoul. Apparently it’s safe there for people like us,” he was saying, and Jeongguk couldn’t help but voice a question budding in his mind.

“People like you?” he asked, cocking his head slightly. “So you mean…you’re _superhuman_?” He couldn’t contain the awe in his voice as he began to ramble, “That’s…so _cool_! It must be so cool to have powers and be able to do crazy, unbelievable things! I’ve always wanted to meet someone superhuman, I have so many questions. I’m Jeongguk, by the way.” He held out his hand to shake, beaming through the dried blood on his face. But, glancing down, he switched his hands quickly, realizing the one he’d extended was the one he’d wiped the blood from his nose with. Oops. A sheepish chuckle escaped him, feeling almost shy in the presence of two beings whose capabilities he had admired since he was young.

“I’m Yugyeom, and this is Bambam,” the blond boy—Yugyeom—introduced the two, smiling warmly, shaking Jeongguk’s hand; he didn’t notice he’d still been holding it for a few seconds too long until Yugyeom withdrew his hand. “And yes, we are. I’m an empath and Bambam can grow and shrink.” Bambam hummed an affirmative in response, then spoke up again from behind Yugyeom.

“What’s your power then?” he asked. “It has to be something. Yugyeom is new to all this, but I trust him. He’s pretty easy to read if you haven’t noticed,” he sounded almost bitter, and his question caused Jeongguk’s face to fall.

“I…don’t have powers,” he stated, shrugging disappointedly. “I dunno what you mean, you keep mentioning powers, and I dunno, I…” Jeongguk trailed off, staring down at his feet, shuffling them awkwardly. “I’m human. My parents are both human. They’ve never mentioned—“ he cut himself off, realization dawning on him after a moment.

“ _He still doesn’t know_?” His father had asked, and his mother had seemed so scared, so convinced he was dangerous. Had they lied to him the whole time? Kept something so _important_ about who he was from him?

“Am I superhuman?” he whispered down at his hands, raising them to stare at his palms.

“I felt it there,” Yugyeom confirmed, his voice sincere. “When I helped you up, I could sense it just like I could when Bambam touched me for the first time. Whatever it is, you have some kind of power. I’m sure of it.”

“Power…” he repeated softly, raising a hand to observe it under the streetlight. “But you don’t know what?” he inquired, hopeful that Yugyeom _would_ know. But he racked his brains nonetheless, trying to come up with any clue as to what power he could possibly possess as he sifted through memories, eyebrows furrowing as he thought.

“I can’t tell what it is. I’m sorry.” Yugyeom said, his tone apologetic. “I could try and help you narrow it down though,” he offered, and Jeongguk shot him a small smile in response, about to thank him before he was cut off.

“Yugyeom, we need to get out of here. We don’t have time for this. The longer we stay away from Seoul, the more danger we put ourselves in,” Bambam interrupted again, his voice laced with anger.

“Without him, we would be dead,” Yugyeom snapped, pressing his lips together firmly. “He saved our lives and he deserves something in return. I’m not leaving him until I figure out what his powers are.” Jeongguk watched the two stare each other down, then timidly interjected.

“It’s probably no safer to travel so late at night,” he stated, training his gaze on the ground in case either of the two’s piercing gazes fell on him. “You guys can stay with me until morning, if you want,” he offered, biting his lip. “I have…Well, it’s not exactly a _nice_ place, but there’s a roof and four walls, _for_ _now_ , and it should be inconspicuous enough that we’ll be safe. Especially since he,” he gestured behind him at the greasy man still unconscious on the pavement, “probably won’t stay like that for long.”

“That would be amazing,” Yugyeom stated before Bambam could speak, turning to look back at him. “We would really appreciate that.”

“Okay,” he breathed, lips quirking a bit. The whole scenario was exciting and new. His brain was swirling with thoughts, but all Jeongguk could focus on was the fact that he had finally met superhumans, had found out he was one, and had finally found something _special_ about himself. That, and the dull pain throbbing in his face. “It’s not too far, just follow me,” he urged, jogging a few steps back the way he had come before stopping for a moment to ensure they were following him.

He watched Yugyeom turn to say something to Bambam in a language he didn’t understand, then the canary-haired boy turned towards him, eyes meeting his for a moment before the two sped up to follow. As soon as Jeongguk was certain they were behind him, he continued at an easy pace, leading them through the back roads of Busan towards his cozy little hideout. He paused at the back door, tearing away the boards that blocked it, then stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter.

“Don’t mind the dust,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “The lower floor is safe, but I wouldn’t recommend venturing upstairs.”

“Understood,” Yugyeom said as he looked around. “Do you actually live here? How did you even find a place like this?” he questioned curiously.

“It used to be the source of some local ghost stories,” Jeongguk explained as he followed them inside, carefully returning the board to its spot in front of the door frame. “I had to spend the night in here in middle school on a dare, and when I found it— _surprisingly_ —not haunted, I kinda started…hanging out here when I wanted to escape home. When my mom threw out all my stuff from my room at home, I was glad to have a place to keep it.”

He stepped around the two carefully, righting the table he had kicked over earlier and sweeping the broken electrical bits from his destroyed project under the sofa with his foot. “I come here a lot now, but no matter how much I clean, I just can’t keep the dust from accumulating so much.” He saw his satchel, still brimming with stolen electronics, on the table and snatched it up—hopefully, before the two saw it—trying to keep it hidden behind his back.

“You can sit down if you want,” he shrugged, then added with a laugh. “I understand if not, though.”

“Don't worry so much,” Yugyeom said with a little laugh, brushing off the couch and laughing at the dust as it rose into the air, sitting down carefully. “This is a lot nicer than where I have been sleeping lately. Where we both have.” He looked to Bambam, who moved carefully around the room before sitting on the arm of the couch closest to Yugyeom.

Jeongguk’s head perked up as Bambam murmured something he couldn’t understand, and he recognized it as the same language the two had used earlier. He pouted for a moment, feeling left out, before voicing his indignation. “Hey!” he whined, his tone light and entirely not serious as he lamented his exclusion, “That's not fair, I can’t understand a word you’re saying, but you seem to understand me.” He dropped his satchel beside a chair across from them, flopping down in it and crossing his arms dramatically in a huff.

“It’s Thai. Bambam is from Thailand,” Yugyeom laughed, shaking his head at Jeongguk’s antics.

“You can use it too if you want. I bet Yugyeom will give in if you ask nicely,” Bambam teased, in Korean this time, but Jeongguk had no idea what he meant. His gaze flitted from Bambam’s face to Yugyeom’s as the other spoke up.

“You make it sound so creepy when you say it like that,” Yugyeom whined, and Jeongguk couldn’t help but notice his face flushing red. He cocked his head slightly, exceedingly confused. Was it something to be embarrassed about?

“What…are you talking about?” he asked with uncertainty, an incredulous scoff accompanying his shrug. “‘Give in’? ‘Creepy’? What is that s’posed to mean? I can’t speak Thai…how would I be able to use it?”

Bambam leaned in closer, an easy smirk on his lips, “One of Yugyeom’s other powers relates to language. Anyone he kisses can speak any language he can and vice versa. He couldn’t understand me when we met so he literally just laid one on me out of nowhere. At least you have a choice.” Yugyeom smacked his leg, pouting as Bambam laughed more.

“Oh,” was all Jeongguk found himself able to respond with, feeling his face growing hot as blush burned in his cheeks. “Th— That’s…a really cool power,” he stuttered, his voice decreasing in volume the more he spoke. His gaze drifted towards Yugyeom’s lips, still in a pout, and as his mind raced, he came to the conclusion he wouldn’t…mind. “I— I d— dunno about…It’d be p— practical, right?” he fumbled over his tongue, laughing nervously.

Jeongguk couldn’t read the expression on Yugyeom’s face as he fixated him with a blank stare. “It would make things easier. You would always be in the loop then,” he stated, and it sounded logical enough to Jeongguk. But was logic really his impetus here? “If you really are okay with it, I don’t mind.”

Jeongguk watched his gaze flit from his eyes, to his lips, and then back up, and he gulped, shifting nervously in his seat. The other boy was only strengthening his conclusion—he _definitely_ wouldn’t mind. Jeongguk pushed the uncertainty of what accompanied such a revelation to the back of his mind, his affirmation barely above a whisper, “I…am.”

“It doesn't have to be a long kiss or anything,” Yugyeom clarified as he stood, pausing his approach for a moment, as if waiting for his response. “It’s no big deal.” He murmured, but even he didn’t seem convinced.

“Okay,” he breathed, wide eyes locked on Yugyeom’s lips in front of him. By the heat in his cheeks, Jeongguk figured he probably looked like a tomato. But despite how flustered he had become, he found himself rising to his feet, approaching Yugyeom with more boldness than his voice would betray.

After a moment, Yugyeom leaned forward and pressed their lips together. Jeongguk’s eyes grew impossibly wider at the sensation before snapping shut. It was short and simple—nothing quite like the media had played up a first kiss to be—but Jeongguk found himself lingering after Yugyeom had pulled away, taking a few seconds to process before opening his eyes again.

“Did it work?” Yugyeom asked, in Thai this time, and Jeongguk gave him a delayed nod.

“Yeah, I think so,” he mumbled, conscious of his words being of a language entirely foreign to him until now. “I—“ he started, but trailed off, unsure of where he was even going with the sentence to begin with. His brain was just…frazzled.

“There we go. Now we’re on equal footing,” Bambam interjected, and Jeongguk’s attention snapped to him immediately. “Now we really need to figure out where we are going from here, Yugyeom. We have already wasted enough time tonight.”

“You said you’re heading to Seoul, right?” Jeongguk questioned, trying to mask how his voice wavered. “You could stay the night here and catch the first train tomorrow. I…can find you some extra clothes, if you want them,” he offered, aware he didn’t have any on-hand but…that could be amended with quick trip around the block to one of the outlets. He was reminded that he never really did get his thieving fix, although the handgun in his waistband he’d nabbed earlier sort of counted.

“That’s okay.” Yugyeom said, and Jeongguk’s eyes were drawn to his backpack as he patted it. “But Jeongguk…” He trailed off, licking his lips before speaking again. “If you want to, you could come with us. If you really are superhuman, it will probably be safer,” he suggested, and Jeongguk could hear the concern lacing his voice.

Jeongguk bit his lip, chewing on it as he considered. For one, he had no plans to return home anyways. His parents made it very clear he wasn’t wanted there, so he wasn’t about to return. Two, if he was indeed superhuman, it would probably be more fun to stick around with other people like himself. Three…he thought he would be sad if he never saw them…Yugyeom…again.

“Yeah, um…if I’m not too much of a burden, I’ll tag along! I can pay for my own ticket and everything,” he declared, beaming. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go, I mean…I can’t exactly go home,” he mumbled the last part, expression falling fast.

With an affirmative from Yugyeom, Jeongguk disembarked the next morning with the pair, sure to surreptitiously bring along the spoils from his last raid (and the handgun, though it was of significantly less importance to him). Though traveling went smoothly, Jeongguk definitely felt an unspoken tension. He was convinced Bambam hated him at first, but eventually the other warmed up to him, and Jeongguk to him in return. Though he still knew very little about the others, he felt at ease around them. At home, even if he was leaving it, yet something still stung deep in his chest when he watched the familiar scenery of Busan pass beyond his vision.

They arrived in Seoul faster than Jeongguk expected. Bambam was to take the lead, as he had done extensive research on where they were going. An organization that called themselves Paradise, championed the equality of humans and superhumans…it sounded nice enough to Jeongguk, so he followed along diligently.

He was excited. Undeniably so, to the point where he almost couldn’t contain it. Shy nature gave way to loquaciousness and he was practically babbling as he walked, “This is so cool! I’ve always wanted to visit Seoul, and…meeting superhumans! Awesome! Being superhuman…I almost can’t believe it.” Childhood dreams of wanting to have powers, to be _special_ , were called to mind, and he exclaimed, “I’ve always _wanted_ to be superhuman. You get to live a cool, easy life with badass powers to help you…”

“I wouldn’t wish this mutation on my worst enemy,” Bambam hissed, his voice low. “If you think having this curse is anything but pure torture, you have it backwards. The opportunity to lead a happy and easy life dies the moment you develop with the gene inside of you.” Bambams voice was completely serious, the anger within it, unmistakable. Yugyeom stayed silent.

Jeongguk froze in his step, confused by Bambam’s outburst. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his tone still lighthearted. “Everyone talks about how _incredible_ it would be to be superhuman and have powers. How is this a curse? Superhumans live just like humans do, but like… _better_.”

“Better? Living in fear every second is better? Being systematically destroyed is better? Whatever you think, isn’t the reality of this world. All over the world, superhumans are being slaughtered. Children and adults alike are being picked off one by one, sent to weird institutions to be pumped with experimental drugs, or into the slums and underground to be thrown into cages, forced to fight to live another day with other superhumans who are just trying to get along as well,” Bambam heaved in a shaky breath. Jeongguk’s mouth was clamped shut, and he almost winced when Bambam began to speak again.

“I can grow to be the size of the buildings that surround us. I can step on you and crush you like you were nothing more than an insect, but I was powerless to stop the government from blowing every single person I have ever loved off this godforsaken earth for being like me or supporting me.” His voice was steady as he spoke, dangerously so. He glared daggers back at Jeongguk, and Jeongguk wanted nothing more than to evaporate on the spot. But he was an idiot, a massive, dumb, _idiot_ , and where his heart wanted him to stop, as soon as he had an opening, his mouth kept going.

“But…they say those are all just urban legends,” his voice was quiet, he was practically flinching away from Bambam. “I— I didn’t know, all I’ve ever been taught was that…superhumans are rare, but they live just like us. Or, well…humans,” he mumbled, refusing to meet Bambam’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Urban legends.” He heard Bambam mumble. “Let’s just get moving. Getting in might take a while and I want a bed to sleep in tonight.” Bambam sounded so hollow when he spoke, it pained Jeongguk to hear. He may not have been at fault for what happened in Thailand, but it was his fault that Bambam was forced to recount such horrific memories, it was his fault that he had even shared such a painful part of his past—one he may not have wanted to share. He pressed his lips into a thin line, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, to the point where sparks exploded against the insides of his eyelids. Guilt, burning guilt was building up in his chest; he didn’t think he could face Bambam, could face other superhumans with similar tragic backgrounds, knowing that he had been so lucky in his own life and so misled about the horrible details of theirs.

Jeongguk swallowed hard, then opened his eyes, still refusing to meet the gazes of either of the other boys. “I—“ he began, voice catching in his throat. “I’m too unfamiliar with the world of superhumans. I…You guys go, I’d just be a— a poser in your midst. I— I’m sorry,” he practically threw himself forward in a bow, then turned on his heel, intending to dash deep into the city before they could stop him.

He felt a hand grab his, halting him before he could take off. He looked back over his shoulder, locking eyes with Yugyeom who gripped his hand desperately.

“Please don’t go! You don’t have to be so lonely anymore. We will be here for you… I'll be here for you.” he pleaded, and something in his tone almost made Jeongguk believe him.

“Yugyeom,” he murmured, “I can’t…” He shook his head, turning away so he wouldn’t have to see the canary-haired boy’s expression. “I don’t belong here. I don’t belong back in Busan. I don’t belong amongst superhumans, amongst humans, or anything in between. I d— I don’t belong _anywhere_ ,” his last statement came through gritted teeth as he blinked back tears. He freed his hand from Yugyeom’s grip as gently as possible, then after a moment’s hesitation, blazed a path deep into the heart of Seoul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took forever to come out, and it’s entirely my fault. i kinda lost inspiration for a while there, but hey! it’s Jeongguk! With some Yugyeom and Bambam, too? Check out Bright_Moon_Beam’s new chapter for their side of the story.
> 
> As always, i hope you enjoyed! Leave me some comments of what you think so far? Next week is gonna be a DOOZY of a chapter, so...stick around? run away? i dunno which is better.


	4. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you even alive?” he heard a voice within the darkness, and his eyes shot open, sitting up suddenly and smacking his forehead against something hard. The voice cried out in pain, and he heard feet scuffling behind him. He turned to face the sound, eyes taking time to adjust to the darkness before he could make out a figure. A girl, younger than him, significantly so, stared at him from within the suffocating dark.
> 
> “So you are alive!” she chirped, her voice betraying how young she was.
> 
> “Yeah…for now,” he mumbled, rubbing his forehead, which was still smarting.
> 
> “What’s your name? What company are you from? How old are you? What are your powers? What is your—“ the girl began listing off question after question, overwhelming him, and he raised his voice as he interrupted her.
> 
> “Stop!” he demanded, holding out a hand to shush her. “Why are you so interested?” he snapped, reeling back as she drew closer.
> 
> “I haven’t met another fighter before,” she admitted frankly, not seeming put-off by his outburst. “At least not one I wasn’t about to kill.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY, FIRST OFF. this took forever to write, i said a week, and then a week became a month, and i just lost all inspiration to finish this. but here it is! a monster chapter, almost 19k words of PAIN. it hurt me to write, trust me. 
> 
> SECONDLY AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING!!!! MAJOR!!  
> trigger warnings !!!! for  
> * violence  
> * abuse  
> * implied sexual assault  
> * suicide attempt 
> 
> it is in the tags but this chapter is such a horrific display of Bad, i HAD to add extra warnings. this chapter CAN be skipped if any of the above might trigger you. you can get the gist of his origin in the future.

The continuous jostling of his body was what woke him, though he might as well have still been unconscious—the view that greeted him was no different from the darkness of the insides of his eyelids. He could feel himself moving, could hear the hum of an engine and the sound of tires on pavement, but where he was and where he was going, he had no idea.

He craned his neck, trying to look around, but a painful throbbing in the back of his head incited him to stop, laying his head back down on the flat surface beneath him. He tried to think back to how he’d gotten there, hoping it would give him a clue as to what was going on.

He recalled that morning, kissing his mother goodbye and leaving for school with his younger brother and sister, walking them to their elementary school and then heading to his middle school on his own. His recollections of the school day were vague at best, but he clearly remembered playing basketball with his friends afterwards. It had been almost sunset when they finally parted ways, and during his long walk home, darkness had fully settled in. His memory was most hazy at that point, but he remembered a sense of being followed, and…a rough hand grabbing him out of the dark, a damp cloth pressed to his nose, and the nauseous stench of chemicals before darkness had enveloped him.

He tried to shift his body in another attempt to catch a glimpse of his location, but he found his space very limited. By what he’d already gathered and with a little bit more shuffling in place, he deduced he was in the trunk of a car, laying on his side, wrists bound behind him and ankles similarly restrained. And if the stifling heat clouding up around his face and the surrounding darkness were any indication, he had _something_ covering his eyes, impeding his vision.

It took a few moments for him to realize the gravity of his situation, but when he did, panic set in. His throat constricted as tears welled up in his eyes, and breaths that were already coming with difficulty grew more frantic and labored as the implications of his circumstances crashed down on him. Blood pounded in his ears as his heart tried to beat out of his chest, drowning out the extended drawl of the vehicle’s engine.

His mom, his dad, his sister, his brother, his grandparents, his _family_ —would he ever see them again? And what would happen to him? His stomach was churning, and an overwhelming wave of nausea washed over him—he was going to be sick just thinking about it.

The vehicle must’ve hit a pothole or something by the way it jarred his body, and he retched, swallowing hard to avoid losing whatever was left of his lunch. He squeezed his eyes shut and curled up in on himself, trying to focus on regulating his breathing and calming his frantic heartbeat.

As soon as he was composed enough to catch his breath, he focused his attention on his bonds, writhing and twisting his wrists as he desperately tried to free his hands, but he only earned for himself the painful bite of wire digging into his skin. He thought he felt some give, however, and pushed on until the wire bit just a little too far, and warm, sticky liquid began to drip down his wrists and collect in his palms. It was no use; he wasn’t going to be able to free himself. A few tears escaped him, blazing hot trails down his cheeks, and it wasn’t long before more followed, sobs wracking his body as hopelessness set in.

He didn’t know how long he laid there, tears streaming down his face, before his sobs finally subsided and his tears were spent. He didn’t know how long he laid there in suffocating silence, waiting anxiously to face his fate, before he felt the vehicle stop. He heard a car door open and slam shut, then another, followed by heavy footsteps approaching. He could hear a man’s muffled voice coming from outside, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then he heard the trunk open, and the voices became more clear.

“—will be pleased,” the voice had been saying, and it was joined by another man’s voice, much more gruff than the former’s.

“He’s kinda a scrawny thing though, don’tcha think?” by the volume of his voice, he could assume the man’s proximity to him. “Might not even be worth it. Ya sure we’ll even get full pay for a runt like ‘im?”

“We did our job. Don’t matter what the merchandise look like, we _got_ the merchandise,” the first voice stated, to which the other responded with a grunt before he felt rough hands lifting him out of the trunk.

He took the opportunity to struggle, trying to writhe his way out of the man’s iron grip. His voice was hoarse from crying and sounded foreign in his ears as he desperately cried out for the man to “Let me go!”

He was pleading, begging to be released as he felt himself being carried, seemingly slung over one of the men’s shoulders. He continued his desperate attempts to wiggle himself free, kicking at the man carrying him. His resistance was met with a hand roughly yanking at his hair, forcing him to still with a whimper as his neck was bent back painfully.

“We’ve got a fighter, eh,” the second man barked out a laugh, and he deduced that he was the one who was carrying him. “Keep up that spirit, kid. You’ll need it where yer goin’.”

He swallowed, mind racing with the possibilities that the man’s statement could’ve been alluding to. Where was he going? He pondered the question in silence as he swayed with each step the man took towards his inevitable fate. He heard a door squeak open, evidently a heavy door by the way it dragged against the ground. A wave of cold air hit him then, causing goosebumps to rise on his skin. He shivered as he was plunged deeper into the cold and silence, the only sound being the heavy footsteps of his abductors as they made their way deeper into whatever sort of structure they had entered.

Eventually, two sets of footsteps became five, and the overwhelming quiet was broken by voices.

“You’re late,” a female voice stated curtly, and the man carrying him scoffed.

“The kid gave us some trouble,” the other man replied, his casual tone suggesting he was unphased by the woman’s rude greeting.

“A tiny thing like that gave _you_ trouble? He must be some monster,” her words indicated a sense of humor, but her tone was cold and very much humorless.

“C’mon, ya know these Daegu _brats_ are always trouble.” Something about the man’s statement caused his ears to perk up. _Daegu_ …

“It’s not an excuse,” a new voice cut through his thoughts—another female, though her voice actually had some… _life_ to it. “Anyways, aren’t you going to show him to us?”

“Oh, yeah. Right,” the man holding him shifted, and he felt the wire around his ankles go slack before he was set down on his feet on a chilly, concrete floor. He assumed he was facing the newcomers as their voices approached him.

“Age?” the first woman asked, and he felt a hand lifting his chin, turning his head to each side.

“Estimated at early teens,” the second woman’s voice came from right in front of him, so he supposed she must’ve been the one examining his blindfolded face.

“Superhuman?”

His blood ran cold at that. How could they so casually inquire about something as serious as being superhuman? He’d been taught that superhumans were dangerous and to be avoided, what if these people were superhumans? Would they kill him? Chop him up into tiny bits and… _eat_ him…? Did superhumans eat humans? He didn’t know.

“I don’t believe so, he appears to be outwardly human. We can’t be sure he doesn’t have any latent abilities without any tests, though,” the second woman mused, releasing his chin.

“Wonderful. Now, you two,” the first woman paused, and he assumed she was speaking to the two men, “hold him steady.”

Now, while he may not have had any plans on resisting anymore beforehand, the woman’s statement made him come to the conclusion that it would probably be wise to. So, as rough hands grabbed his arms, he tried to tug them away, twisting in the deadly vice grip keeping him in place.

A palm caressing his cheek incited him to still, and the second woman’s soft voice reached his ears, sounding almost _kind_ , “This is going to hurt, okay? But it’ll be much less painful if you hold still, I promise.”

He gulped, shutting his eyes—though it didn’t matter, he was still blindfolded. He waited, listening to the shifting of bodies around him, and eventually, he felt a pinprick in his neck that quickly grew to a horrible, stabbing pain. He bit his tongue to stop himself from crying out. After a few excruciatingly long moments, the pain subsided, replaced by a foggy feeling behind his eyes, clouding his brain.

“Siwoo, it’s your turn now,” the nice woman’s voice sounded distant, and he blinked slowly, trying to focus on what this new man’s voice was saying before darkness filled his mind, and the voices faded into nothingness.

——

“—ey. Hey! Kid, wake up!”

A loud voice from somewhere beside him roused him from his blissful slumber, only contributing to the excruciating pain pounding in his head and echoing in his ears. He pushed himself up, but immediately doubled over, emptying his stomach onto the floor—though it was mostly just bile that burned the back of his throat—as the pain in his head tripled.

“Woah, are you okay?” the voice continued, and he could pick out the concern lacing the inquiry.

He gripped the sides of his head, curling up in on himself until the pain had subsided a little, then he lifted his head up, glancing around in search of the voice amidst the darkness that greeted his bleary eyes.

Once they’d adjusted to the dark, he was able to pick out the source of the voice—a boy, he looked older than him, standing in the center of a _cage_ beside him. That detail was puzzling enough, but after looking around a bit more, he realized he was _also_ in a cage, wide enough to lie down and tall enough to stand up in, but still impossibly claustrophobic.

He stood sharply, wobbling on shaky legs as he dashed forward to grip the bars surrounding him, shaking them as if to confirm they were real. And when they offered no give, he released them slowly, backing away as his vision swam. He was trapped. _He was trapped, he was trapped, he was trapped, he was trapped_ —

“What’s going on?” he gasped, trying to catch his breath as he felt panic bubble in his chest. “Where am I?”

“Hey,” a softer voice pulled him out of his panic, and he glanced around frantically to locate who it belonged to. His eyes landed on an older girl on his opposite side, sitting close to the bars and smiling sadly up at him. Her hand was extended to him through the bars, and he reluctantly approached her, sitting in front of her and taking her hand. She squeezed his lightly, mumbling quiet reassurances as his breathing slowed. Once he was calmed down, he asked again, “Where are we?”

She glanced away, opening her mouth as if to answer, but the first voice—the boy’s voice—cut her off before she could begin.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked, and he turned his head to face him.

“My name? It’s T—“ he furrowed his brow, confusion washing over him. What _was_ his name? He thought it started with a T…or maybe a K? H? Was there a Y in it somewhere?

“I…don’t know. I don’t know my name,” he exclaimed, feeling his chest begin to constrict again. “I can’t remember, I—“

“It’s okay,” the girl squeezed his hand again, drawing his attention back to her, “none of us remember our names, either. We ask just in case there’s an anomaly, but…nobody ever remembers anything before waking up here.”

“We suspect the men in white do something to our minds. Make us forget,” the boy stated. “We have to estimate our ages, we have to wonder where we’re from, we have to mourn families we don’t even know if we have. Though they always leave our memories of our powers intact somehow.”

“Speaking of which, do you know how old you are? Where you’re from? Anything about your family or friends before you came here?” the girl asked gently, and he tried to rack his brains for any answer he could give.

“My age…I don’t know. Family…where I’m from…” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

The girl hummed, cocking her head and pursing her lips as she observed him. “I’d estimate you’re about…fourteen. Maybe thirteen,” she stated, nodding a bit as if satisfied with her answer. But then her face fell, and he barely caught her voice as she lamented, “That’s so _young_ …”

She glanced up, expression distraught, and he followed her gaze to the boy behind him.

“What…do you mean?” he inquired, voice low and unsure. Her expression, coupled with her apparent concern about him being at such a young age, caused a peculiar sense of anxiety to build in the pit of his stomach.

“M— Maybe he’ll be okay,” the boy’s voice sounded as nervous as he felt as he skipped over his question, speaking to the girl.

“Two, he—“

“What’s your power, kid? Surely they’d only abduct someone so young if their powers were fantastic and powerful, right?” The boy was rambling, and his head was swimming. _Power_ , what was this about a _power_? Were they…

“Two!” a new voice interjected, cutting off the boy. It came from behind him, and he turned to see another boy in a cage there, and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed him before. He supposed they must be organized in two adjacent rows, and he glanced around amidst the two boys’ arguing, observing the occupied cages extending into the darkness.

The second boy had been berating the first for his tactless rambling, but he tuned them out until he was mentioned, his interest piqued as the new boy exclaimed, “Look at his wrists, dumbass! He doesn’t have inhibitors.”

He glanced down at his own wrists, seeing nothing out of the ordinary save some dark bruises, but as he observed the wrists of the three surrounding him, he noticed theirs weren’t so bare. Silver cuffs circled each of their wrists, and something sparking at the back of his memory told him he knew what they were for. He vaguely recalled them being used by police to apprehend—

“Superhumans,” he breathed, backing away from the girl quickly. “You’re all superhumans. The cuffs, they— they’re so you can’t use your powers.”

“Yeah,” the girl agreed, smiling sadly at him. “Yeah, _we_ are, but you aren’t, are you? You’re human…” He nodded reluctantly, trying to ignore the pity reflecting in her eyes.

“You don’t need to be scared of us. Like you said, we can’t use our powers. The inhibitors would sense us trying and tase us before we could even do anything,” the new boy mumbled, fidgeting with one of the silver cuffs.

“Not like we’d even want to use them against people anyways! We _don’t_ want to hurt anyone,” the first boy exclaimed indignantly. “It’s not like any of our powers _could_! You know what I can do? I can duplicate myself, that’s _all_. Not very dangerous, if you ask me.”

“We call him ‘Two,’” the second boy stated, pointing at the first, “because he can make two of himself.”

“It’s clever, huh? We don’t know our names, so we use nicknames based on our powers. I’m called Sun because I can produce and manipulate light. He’s Null,” the girl, Sun, pointed at the second boy, “because he can nullify superhuman powers and take them for himself.”

He could pick up desperation smothered beneath her facade of lightheartedness as she spoke, evidently trying her hardest to convince him the three were nothing to be feared. He relaxed a bit, not realizing how tight his shoulders had gotten as he shrunk away from the three. He couldn’t remember why, but he’d been so terrified. So terrified that they were superhumans.

He saw Sun sigh at his prolonged silence, turning away from the bars. He was still wary of the trio for reasons he couldn’t explain, but he figured it would be a rather lonely existence in his cage if he made the people closest to him—quite literally, in the physical sense—turn away from him.

“Do— Do you guys know why we’re here?” he finally asked, his burning question overwhelming his reluctance. He was met with an uncomfortable silence before Two spoke, his voice quiet.

“We…don’t.”

The others didn’t seem to feel like talking anymore, so he gave up on the question and kept any others that arose in his mind bottled up, saved for later. And so he retreated into his own mind, again scouring it for any memory he might possess of the world before the dark room filled with cages.

He remembered the sun, feeling its gentle warmth on his skin in the summer. He remembered the change of seasons, watching leaves change colors and fall until eventually they were coated with a dusting of snow. He saw faceless figures, tried to cling to their vague shapes within the recesses of his mind. He missed it. Missed them, yet didn’t know why.

He knew the workings of the world. He knew the earth orbited the sun, knew how to add and subtract and multiply and divide; he knew he lived in a country called _Korea_ , and that he spoke _Korean_. He was certain he could read, too, if he saw anything to be read. He knew superhumans and humans both populated the planet, and he knew they were different, that superhumans had _abilities_ he didn’t. He knew the gnawing pain in his stomach was hunger, knew the tight feeling in his chest was fear, knew the stinging in his eyes was tears that had been threatening to spill over from the start.

His instinct and his acquired knowledge weren’t lost, yet they served him little purpose in understanding who he was.

In time, the silence and the darkness—and the boredom, ultimately—contributed to him dozing off, and while drifting between the rift of consciousness and lack thereof, he vaguely registered voices speaking softly around him.

“Sun, you’re already attached.”

“He’s just a kid! They’re scum, but to stoop this low? I wish I could say I didn’t believe it, but…”

“It’s not that surprising. They’re growing desperate, so anything goes.”

“It’s so terrible…”

“You have to force yourself to overlook it.”

“And how do you propose I do that, Two?”

“I…don’t know…”

“You hate this as much as I do. And we can’t…we can’t tell him.”

He was pulled entirely to the plane of consciousness when he realized they were talking about him. He pretended to still be asleep however, choosing to eavesdrop on their conversation. What couldn’t they tell him?

“Is it really better of us not to? He’ll see it happening eventually.”

“You know humans don’t…”

“He’s already scared, telling him will only make it worse. You two should consider that.”

What were they hiding? Even if telling him was going to make him more scared, he didn’t think it could make him any more frightened than not knowing at all, yet being aware they were keeping some horrible secret from him.

The conversation eventually died down, and he figured the others must have gone to sleep. He’d get no more information out of them, so he made himself as comfortable as possible, and tried his best to sleep on the cold floor of his cage.

——

The ubiquitous darkness of the room gave no indication to how much time had passed, but he figured it was at least several hours when he awoke to the loud conversation of the three superhumans, sounding significantly more lighthearted than he had heard them while eavesdropping on their secret discussion. He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, as Two shouted.

“Kid, you’re awake! The men brought our daily meals,” he stated, reaching his hand through the bars of his cage and nudging a metal tray with some sort of unappetizing slop splattered on it towards him. “It’s nasty-ass shit of course, but it’s better to just live with it than starve to death.”

He _was_ starving, so he ignored the slimy feeling in his throat with every swallow as he practically inhaled the…food? Was it food? It didn’t matter.

Sun was laughing at him as he slid the empty tray away, “I guess it must’ve been a while since you’ve had anything to eat?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged, “felt like it though. Anyways, you said daily?” He asked, turning back to Two. “How do you guys tell time in here?”

“First of all, we know we each receive a meal once a day and each go to training once a week. The men told us that much…in a roundabout way, of course,” Two explained. “Otherwise…”

“We guess,” Null mumbled, seemingly about to add something else before the older was interrupted by another curious inquiry.

“Training, you said? For what?” he asked, cocking his head slightly.

“Oh, well, uh…” Two seemed put on the spot, stuttering to find an answer. “It’s just for superhumans.”

“Then what about me?”

“Humans…they go for t—“

A loud slam of a door opening interrupted Two, and his eyes were drawn to the faint light streaming into the room. He could see the men in white the others had spoken about—they seemed like giants, decked out in stark white suits and masks concealing their faces.

His eyes were glued to the newcomers as they approached—he counted five of them, but he saw more entering the room—a couple splitting off and leading away the denizens of some of the cages down the line from his own. He had a bad feeling about the whole situation, so when one paused in front of his cage, he scrambled towards the back as the door was unlocked.

“Already?” he heard Sun mumble sadly as the man grabbed his arm.

“No!” he protested, struggling against the iron grip on his bicep. “No, let me go!”

“Shut _up_ , you stupid kid,” the harsh voice was accompanied by a violent tug on his arm, and he jerked forward, stumbling onto his feet behind the stranger in white.

He continued to fight the man as he dragged him along, digging his heels into the floor in an attempt to slow him down. But ultimately, the man was significantly stronger than him, and his efforts were futile. He was led through the doors of the dark room into a hallway so bright, he had to squint to see his own two feet in front of him.

He passed a few doors and turned down another hallway to face a large set of double doors; it was through these that he was shoved, leaving him in a white room filled with numerous others. Two men stood guard by the doors he’d just entered through, and he assumed they were to prevent any of them from escaping. With the option to run off the table, he turned to the people lingering within the room. He estimated them all to be older than him, and significantly so, just like the three superhumans were. He made a point to observe their wrists closely for inhibitors, determining everyone else there was a human too, as the silver cuffs were absent from each person’s wrists.

He turned to a girl sitting against the wall near him, taking a seat beside her and asking softly, “Do you know why we’re here?”

“We’re waiting,” she mumbled with a nonchalant shrug.

“For what…?”

“Our turn,” she accompanied her short reply with an extended hand, pointing in the direction of the back wall. He wasn’t sure what she meant, but figured pushing further wouldn’t yield any comprehensible results.

“Oh…” he glanced down at his lap, fiddling with his thumbs before daring to glance up again and ask, “So, what’s your name?”

“Name?” she muttered, finally training her eyes on him. They were cold, lifeless and had dark circles under them. “What do you mean? I don’t have a name. My code is S-2409 if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Code?” he mused, trailing off. “It’s not— I—“

After a moment, she sighed. “You must be new,” she stated, leaning her head back against the wall. “If so, good luck. You’ll need it.”

“Why—“

His inquiry was put on hold as the back wall slid open, a tall woman in a lab coat striding through. Her chilling monotone filled the silence of the room as she called out numbers that made no sense to him, yet as more lab coat-clad people entered the room and gathered up certain individuals there, he connected that the numbers must be the “codes” the girl mentioned. And evidently, hers had been called as well; she willingly stood up and followed the woman that had approached her.

“See you on the other side,” she muttered to him with a sinister grin, saluting him over her shoulder as the wall closed behind her.

In time, the first group that had ventured beyond the back wall returned and were whisked off by the men that had brought them there, yet their numbers seemed…fewer. He didn’t see the girl with them, either. Another group was called, disappeared for a while, and then returned just like the first.

So few of them remained, he figured his turn would be next. And he was correct; with the next list of codes, he found himself staring at the shiny black shoes of a man in front of him. He allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet, following along with no resistance despite the fear fluttering in his chest.

He wasn’t watching where he was going, wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings; he just watched the man’s shoes as he walked in front of him, leading him somewhere then telling him to sit. He glanced up then, taking in the large black chair in the center of a room filled with various intimidating machines; their use, he didn’t want to imagine.

He sat down tentatively, reminded for a moment of the chairs in his dentist’s office. He wondered then if maybe this was all this was, a…dental appointment or something. Surely, that’s all it was.

He held his breath as the man left the room, daring to stand up and observe the equipment. It didn’t seem similar to the stuff he remembered in his dentist’s observation rooms, so that speculation was busted. As footsteps approached, he sat down again with a huff, furrowing his brow as he stared at his feet in front of him.

The harsh woman’s voice cut through the space, asking about his code. His ears perked up, and he glanced over the back of the chair.

“D-3012,” the man who’d brought him there responded, handing the woman a clipboard. She hummed in response, flipping through the pages.

“Just standard procedure,” she stated after a moment, returning the clipboard. “See how he responds.”

He didn’t know what that meant, but he sure didn’t like the sound of it. He was practically shaking when the man sat down beside him, and he recoiled when he saw the the large syringe in his hand. He didn’t like the look of whatever was inside, and definitely didn’t want it anywhere near him. He slid off the other side of the chair, trying to make a break for it, but he just ran straight into the man as he blocked the door, stopping him in his tracks.

“Make this easier for both of us and just hold still,” he sighed, glaring down at him. He hung his head, hopping back up onto the chair obediently. He glanced away as the man tilted his head back, wincing at the pinch in his neck and squeezing his eyes shut as the pain persisted. Otherwise, nothing seemed to happen, and the man sighed disappointedly.

“Another failure, I bet,” he could hear him mumble. “And Seolhee said he had promise, too. What a shame.”

He wanted to ask what that meant, but realized he’d probably get no answer. He just sat in silence, mulling over the potential implications of him having “promise” or whatever as the man drew his blood, still muttering to himself as he taped gauze to his arm.

“Can you walk?” he eventually asked, though his voice suggested not out of consideration, but rather annoyance. He nodded, his lightheadedness already having passed, and stumbled to his feet. He followed the man back to the sliding wall-door, then allowed himself to be dragged the whole way back to his cage, which he was unceremoniously thrown back into.

He laid back on the cold metal floor, tuning out Sun’s panicked rambling at him and Two’s attempts to get his attention. But there were some things nagging at him, so he sat up, facing Two and waiting for the superhumans to go silent.

“Don’t the humans have nicknames?” he asked, cocking his head. “I talked to a girl today. She— She referred to herself by some ‘code,’ and I guess I have one, too. Don’t we— Don’t _I_ get a nickname?”

“You…uh,” Two paused, running a hand through his dark hair and scratching at the back of his head, “It’s a superhuman thing, sorry.”

“Oh,” he sighed, biting the inside of his cheek, “I didn’t know.”

“And the codes,” Null spoke up, sounding tired. “They’re just for identification. We all have them. They’re on the bottoms of your feet.”

He furrowed his brow, twisting to get a look at the sole of one of his feet. Surely enough, the same code the man had referred to him as was seemingly burned into the flesh there. “D-3012” stared up at him, and he ventured to ask one more question, one he wouldn’t receive an answer to. But he couldn’t help but wonder, as the day’s events did nothing to clue him in on his situation.

“What was the point of that…injection?”

——

He determined a week had passed by counting the times he was fed, like the others had told him. Sometime throughout it, Two, Sun, and Null had each been led through the doors by the men in white, returning exhausted and with fresh bruises marring their skin.

It was his turn again; everything proceeded the same way as last time: the hallway, the waiting room—although it seemed a bit…emptier, if he thought about it; plus, the girl was again absent. He spoke with a few more humans before his code was called, and he was led back to the same room. Nothing there varied either—he received a dose of that suspicious-looking liquid, had his blood drawn, and was returned to his cage. His neck—more specifically, the site of the injection—had itched a bit, but otherwise, nothing, and he was uncertain of its purpose as it didn’t seem to _do_ anything.

Weeks passed in that same manner, and each time fewer and fewer humans populated the waiting room.

He estimated it to be roughly two months since he first woke up in the dark room. He was alone in his testing room, waiting for the man (he had determined it was the same one each time) to return with the woman—Doctor Seolhee, he’d heard her called—and administer his weekly dose of _whatever_.

He was drawn from the room however, padding away on soft feet, by the sound of a commotion down the hall of testing rooms. He peeked through the doorway, staying out of the line of sight of the doctor and the assistant with her as he watched the scene unfold. The girl in the chair was screaming, thrashing violently against restraints holding her there. He was about to return to his room, finding it painful to watch the girl struggle, when—

Her skin, her skin was just…disappearing, dusting away, and she lurched forward, retching, blood splattering all over the chair and herself. When she threw her head back again, he could see blood pouring from her nose, dripping down her chin, even leaking from her eyes as her skin practically _melted_ off of her, exposing the bloody mess of muscle and bone beneath. His horrified gaze was glued to the scene; it was horrible, and he wanted to run away and maybe vomit, but he just couldn’t tear his eyes away.

He felt the temperature drop, and watched as ice began to coat the chair she was sitting on, apparently stemming from her. But she was human, she couldn’t have…powers…

He wasn’t given the time to ponder the peculiarities of the occurrence as her desperate screaming was cut short by shards of ice impaling her through her back and out her torso. He watched the life drain from her eyes, watched her body fall limp against the chair, and figured it was time for him to go.

He dashed back on shaky legs to his own room, situating himself on his chair before even trying to process what he’d seen. He thought he’d burst into tears if he gave it any thought, so he pushed it to the back of his mind as the man entered the room with the doctor, who certainly didn’t look like she had just witnessed the horrific scene he had.

He was silent, complacent as he endured the typical procedure, was obedient as he walked back to his cage. It was only once the doors closed behind the men in white that he allowed himself to finally break down.

Tears flowed freely down his cheeks, and he curled up in on himself, clamping a hand over his mouth to keep himself from throwing up. He was shaking, his whole body shuddering as violent sobs wracked it. He rested his forehead on the cold metal beneath him, hugging his other arm to himself.

“What did you see?” Sun’s voice eventually cut through his cries, and he shook his head violently, his voice growing frantic as he tried to relay it.

“B— Blood, s— so— so much blood and…and she— she…her _skin_ , a— and ice…wh— why was there _ice_ ,” he whimpered, covering his eyes and leaning further into the metal floor.

Sun didn’t respond, and neither did the other two. They seemed to wait for him to calm down, and though it took a while, he eventually sat up, sobs subsiding. As he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, Two asked again, “What happened?”

He ignored the boy’s question though, instead choosing to pose a few of his own. “Why am I here?” he asked with a sniffle, “What are the tests about?”

Two fell silent, hanging his head slightly. He turned away from the bars, kicking at the metal halfheartedly.

“They’re trying to make you superhuman,” he eventually responded, his voice barely above a whisper.

He was almost too stunned to even think. He slumped back on his heels, staring ahead at the boy in front of him as he began to blabber, “Superhuman? Wh— How? Is…Is it even possible? I— I can’t be…”

“I’m sorry, kid,” Two muttered, turning his back to him, curling up and falling silent.

“No human has survived yet,” Null supplied from behind him, his voice also quiet and remorseful.

And suddenly, it felt like he was drowning. He gripped at his chest, trying, desperately trying to _breathe_. His eyes swam with panic as he glanced from Null to Two to Sun, seeing only the same silent, apologetic expression painting each of their faces. He lowered himself onto his side, too stunned to cry, too terrified to speak, and drew his knees into his chest, unfocused gaze fixated on the bars surrounding him.

——

He didn’t know when he fell asleep, but he supposed he must have when he awoke to his daily tray in front of him and the soft voices of Two and Null. If they noticed him wake up, they didn’t say anything, continuing their conversation, if a bit quieter now. His gaze flitted to Sun who had her back turned to him. He couldn’t tell if she was awake or not, but by her empty tray, he figured she had at least been awake earlier. He didn’t try to speak to any of them, instead retreating into his own mind, zoning off for most of the day.

It wasn’t until later that he worked up the will to approach them again.

“Why are you guys here if you’re already superhuman?” he asked, not daring to look at any of them. He wasn’t sure he was going to get an answer, as the silence that followed his inquiry seemed to stretch on forever. But eventually, Sun spoke up.

“They’re going to sell us,” she mumbled. “I don’t know what you remember from the outside world, or if you even knew, as a human, but…the world is a dangerous place for superhumans.”

“Fighting,” Null stated, clarifying nothing for him.

“People began…kidnapping superhumans,” Two explained, his voice wavering. “They forced them to fight each other for a profit, often to the death. But superhumans got better and better at hiding, we…we were just the stupid ones that got ourselves caught.”

“The owners of this place are auctioneers,” Null added with a sigh, “and they’re behind on their usual quota of superhumans. They need more for the big auction in February, so that’s why they’re trying to make them instead.”

“And h— how far away is February?” he turned to face Null as he asked, the other seeming to know a lot more than Sun or Two did.

“By my estimation, three months or so.”

“How do you know?” Sun shot up suddenly, approaching the bars in a flurry. “How?”

“I remember the month I got here,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “April. It was April, and I’ve been counting the months since. Seven.”

“You’ve been here for _seven months_?” Two’s incredulous voice joined in. “How come you never told us?”

“Wasn’t important,” he muttered, turning away from the intense stares the three were shooting him.

“You survived the training for that long?” Sun shook her head, resting it against the bars of her cage. “And I feel like I’m just gonna _die_ every week.”

“Is that where you guys go?” he eventually piped up, and Sun nodded.

“They train us to fight. I’m not very good at all,” she whined, setting her jaw in annoyance. Her expression softened, however, as she looked over at him. “It beats…the testing though, I s’pose.”

He could only hum in agreement, staring down at his hands as the silence that descended upon them threatened to suffocate him.

——

He witnessed another human die on the next testing day, watching through the door as the boy’s body was literally torn limb from limb by powers it was rejecting. The week after, when he heard the familiar commotion followed by pained screams, he stayed in his room, unsure if he could stomach watching another innocent person die.

When he was dropped back in his cage that day, a horrible feeling in his gut told him he’d be following the others soon. His body had begun to ache more and more with each passing day, and movement was becoming increasingly more difficult. He did nothing but lay around anymore, listening to the superhumans talk around him and play games to pass the time, but he didn’t join in anymore.

He counted the days as they passed, and the week ended. His testing day had arrived again, and he couldn’t bring himself to eat. Sun asked him if he was alright, and everything he had been bottling up spilled out in that moment.

“I— I’m not gonna make it much longer,” he whispered, blinking back tears.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice comforting, but not enough to prevent the tears from coming.

“I can feel it,” he sobbed, sliding up to her and allowing her to card her fingers through his hair soothingly as he cried with his face up against the bars. “I’m gonna die this week. Today.”

She shushed him, mumbling soft reassurances that he was wrong, that he was going to make it out of this whole thing just fine, but he knew she was lying and was sure she knew it, too.

When the men in white came for him, he didn’t bother resisting. It hurt too much and just wasn’t worth it. He bid Sun and the others farewell, and trudged along behind the men.

He sat against the wall of the waiting room as usual, watching it fill up with others. It wasn’t so empty this time; he noticed many newcomers, and his heart hurt for them. He felt like he finally knew how that girl felt, the one he’d spoken to the first time he’d been in this room and never seen again. Just…tired. Empty. Unconcerned, watching new people enter, knowing how they’d end up—like him, shortly.

He heard his code called, and he stood up, not even waiting for the usual man to find him, instead going to him himself. Obediently, he followed him to his room, took his seat, and waited, staring ahead blankly as he awaited his end.

In time, Doctor Seolhee entered, taking a look at his clipboard for a moment. “You think he’s ready?” she asked, cold eyes boring into him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s only been a little over two months, are you sure?” she raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to him to observe.

“His body has been responding really well to the injections. I think today is the day to try,” the man explained, pointing to something on the clipboard. “What do you recommend?”

The doctor hummed, handing the clipboard back to him. “He’s the one we’ve been trying sample B-2508 on, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stim,” she stated after a moment’s consideration, pulling over a stool and taking a seat beside his chair. “Administer electric stimulation to the muscles of his back and chest, with focus around his shoulders. See if we can’t activate the sample.”

“Yes ma’am,” the man scuttled behind his chair, fiddling with one of the scary machines that occupied the other side of the room.

“Dear,” the doctor seemed to be addressing him, her voice saccharine sweet—deceivingly so, “can you take your shirt off for us real quick?”

He nodded, lifting the thin fabric up over his head, shrinking down a little at the cold as he handed it to her. He felt the man attach some sort of cold, sticky patch to his now-exposed back, and he watched out of the corner of his eye as more followed. He was able to get a good look at the things as a few were stuck to his chest—they were just tiny gray squares with little wires extending to the odd device pulled up beside him. He traced one with his finger and found the surface surprisingly…soft, almost felt-like.

“Now hold still, kid,” the man demanded, and he obliged, closing his eyes at the familiar prick in his neck and keeping them shut as he felt restraints circle his wrists.

When nothing happened, he opened his eyes again, glancing around the room once more. The man seemed to be adjusting the device again, and he watched him work for a few moments before the woman’s voice cut through the silence.

“All good?” she inquired, and the man gave an affirmative nod. “Okay, then let’s begin.”

With the press of a button, he felt the muscles of his chest and especially his back constrict painfully with the electric shock that followed. He gritted his teeth, relaxing a bit in his seat as it passed.

“No response,” the woman stated disappointedly. “Try a higher setting.”

The shock was stronger, and with it came the pain, almost mind-numbingly so. He threw his head back, screaming through gritted teeth. He didn’t stop even when the shock passed, the excruciating pain only building in its absence. His veins were burning, burning, his skin felt like he had a thousand sunburns. His limbs felt heavy, and he slumped back, budding pressure in his chest stifling his cries. He could only stare ahead in a haze, waiting for the next, worse bout of pain to come.

Thank God he blacked out before he could endure the full brunt of it, peaceful darkness greeting him like a friend.

It didn’t last, however.

He came to with the feeling of being carried, leadlike limbs limp and swaying with each footstep taken. His eyelids felt heavy, and he didn’t bother trying to open them. He just listened in on the doctor and the man’s discussion as they followed his escort, their voices fading in and out of his understanding.

“You…right, Siwoo,” the doctor stated, sounding _pleased_ , the first real emotion he had ever seen—or, well… _heard_ —out of her. “He ac—survived. He might…chance…success.”

Her voice faded out, and he heard a door slam. He continued to linger on the brink of consciousness, the burning in his veins beginning again. He was jarred fully awake, however, when his body collided with the harsh metal of his cage. He staggered to his feet, reaching out and grabbing at the door before it could be closed. He struggled with the man in white as his vision swam, trying to force his way out of the cage as his body screamed in protest. What he would do if he escaped, he didn’t know—he just knew he needed _out_ , immediately.

But the man was stronger than him, and he was shoved roughly against the far back bars of the cage, and the door was slammed shut in his face. He screamed in frustration, screamed in pain, as the burning began to congeal in his back, the spot pulsating with such an excruciating pain he wished he had just _died_ instead.

He vaguely registered Sun’s panicked voice and Two shaking the cage bars, but he was unable to focus on them. He dropped to his knees, curling up on himself as his own screams filled his ears.

He could feel something shifting painfully under the skin of his back, could feel his spine snapping in and out of place. He reached up to claw at it, digging his nails into his skin and dragging them across it frantically. Eventually, he was tearing away chunks of his own flesh surrounding his shoulder blades, and he could see skin caught beneath his fingernails.

He felt blood dripping down his back, saw it pooling around his knees, yet his fingers still found their way, still dug deeper into his flesh until he felt bone. It wasn’t his shoulder blade though, no—it was new, protruding, extending. He jerked forward, the bones in his shoulders shifting and cracking painfully. He was foaming at the mouth, unable to hear his own screaming through the pain that clouded everything, everything—he was practically convulsing at that point as every bone in his upper body seemed to shift erratically, making way for…

The cage felt cramped, it was closing in on him. It felt like _something_ was growing from his back, filling the already-claustrophobic space. He raked his nails over his face and through his hair until finally, it felt like he had reached the end of it. His spine snapped into place one final time, forcing him to sit up straight, a terrible shriek tearing its way through his throat, and then he fell forward, his cheek making harsh contact with the sticky metal floor. His eyes rolled back in his head, and darkness enveloped him again.

——

When he woke for the second time, his cage had been cleaned and the pain was all but a bad memory. His balance felt horribly off as he sat up though, and he attributed it to hitting his head when he passed out. He saw Sun looking at him like she’d seen a ghost, however, and he crawled over to her side of his cage.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

She shook her head, just staring slack-jawed at him. Or, well… _behind_ him?

“K— Kid…” he heard Two’s voice from behind him, “turn around.”

He obliged, turning to face the older boy, put paused as he caught a glimpse of a dark shape in his peripheral vision. He craned his neck fully to look behind him, taking in the sight of dark wings protruding from his shoulder blades. His efforts to see them in full grew frantic, and he gasped out a faint, “What the—“

“What the _fuck_ is right, kid,” Two interrupted him. “I guess…they succeeded.”

“No!” he exclaimed, wincing at the burn in his throat. “I can’t be superhuman! I’m human, I’m…” He clutched at his chest, biting his lower lip. He noted the shiny silver cuffs that now graced his wrists, and he swallowed hard.

He slowly drew his knees in to his chest, and his wings seemed to follow suit, folding up neatly against his back. He snapped his gaze forward, refusing to look at them as if it’d make them disappear. He couldn’t be superhuman, it wasn’t _possible_ to make someone superhuman, he was a human, he was human, he was—

Sun’s hesitant voice broke him out of his thoughts. It seemed forced, but he knew her intentions were good. “We could, um…We could give you a nickname now, I s’pose,” she offered slightly, probably aware a name wouldn’t solve his problems at this point, but it did make him feel a little better.

“Okay,” he agreed softly, resting his chin on his knees. He didn’t want to think about the implications of having wings, of being _superhuman_ , any longer, so he accepted the distraction.

“How about…Angel?” Two suggested, sounding unsure of his choice.

“Doesn’t feel right,” Null shut him down disapprovingly. “How about something more literal like…Feathers?”

“Ew, no,” Two’s denial was vehement, “too long, big no. I raise you: Crow. His wings are black, like a crow’s.”

“But they aren’t necessarily _crow’s wings_ ,” Null argued, and their debate continued for a bit before Sun cut in.

“V,” she offered, garnering protests from both boys.

“What does _that_ have to do with his powers?” Null spat, and Two added a short affirmation of his agreement.

“It _doesn’t_ , but you guys were just coming up with stupid names, so I came up with something much simpler and cleaner,” he watched her cross her arms, steadfast in her suggestion. “‘V,’ for ‘victory,’” she elaborated. “Okay, maybe it’s kind of dumb, but like…” she paused, gesturing vaguely with her hands, “he’s the only human so far to claim ‘victory’ over the experiments.”

“By that logic, why not ‘S’ for ‘survival,’ or something else _completely idiotic_ along that vein,” Sun shot Null a glare as he continued to argue.

“And if you’re going with ‘victory,’ why not like…’Vic’ or something,” Two asked, mimicking Sun’s crossed arms.

“I don’t know! Why don’t you two _morons_ ask _him_ what _he_ wants,” Sun seemed at her wits’ end, and he suppressed an amused smirk as she rolled her eyes and sighed exasperatedly.

“What _do_ you like?” Two’s question was directed at him, and he should’ve expected it, but he was too engrossed in listening to their bickering to drown out his own swirling thoughts and ended up put on the spot.

“I…dunno. I do kind of like…” he trailed off, considering his choice, and he noticed the three lean closer in anticipation of his answer.

“…V?” he shrugged, waiting for the rebuttal from Two and Null, but none came. Sun shot them a triumphant grin, and he heard Null grumble something like “stupid name,” but they seemed to accept his decision.

“V…” he muttered to himself, testing the name on his tongue. “Hi, I’m V. My name is V,” he continued to mumble until the name had taken root, until it felt like his own.

——

Once the others had gone to sleep and his distraction was lost, he—“V,” he supposed he should call himself—was left to the company of his own mind. A mind struggling to wrap around the idea that he was… _superhuman_ now.

He couldn’t be. It was wrong, everything was wrong. Superhumans were _monsters_ , something in the deepest recesses of his memory argued. They were horrible, monstrous creatures to be feared.

Was _he_ a monster now?

He combed his fingers through his hair, clutching at the roots, stifling sobs into his forearms. The mantra repeated itself, clouding his thoughts and drowning out all else: _you’re a monster, you’re a monster, you’re a monster—_

He clamped his hands over his ears, willing the harsh voice to disappear. The words only lessened in volume, remaining as an underlying mantra beneath the clutter of all of his other thoughts for the rest of his life.

——

With the advent of his newly acquired superhuman abilities came a change in his weekly activities. Instead of testing once a week, the men in white would come twice a week and carry him off to an area of the building he hadn’t seen before—the superhuman training rooms. He’d overheard them complaining about the frequency of his lessons, and the danger of turning off his inhibitors so often, but apparently they were behind, and three months wasn’t enough time for him to reach full fighter status if he stayed on a weekly schedule.

Wings did _not_ offer him much to fight with—unless one counted how V had to fight with the wings themselves to adjust to how they threw his balance completely off. Regardless, he had to be taught how to fend for himself. How to kill. So twice a week, he’d meet with a harsh instructor intent upon teaching him hand-to-hand  
combat.

He wasn’t very good, if he was being honest.

With each failure, his instructor would strike him, drag him to his feet and force him to repeat the drill until his legs collapsed beneath him. And this repeated for days, weeks on end, with no sign of progress from V.

“You little shrimp,” his instructor would taunt as he circled around him like a hawk. “You won’t last one minute in the ring. Correct your form, strike harder, _try harder!_ ”

He’d flinch whenever the man raised his voice, expecting a slap or a punch to accompany it, and that would just make the instructor more angry.

“You’re going to die, you know that?” he taunted, his voice taking on a sinister amusement. “Your pretty little head is gonna be torn from your shoulders, some big, strong superhuman is gonna make a dress out of your entrails.”

V knew he was weak. He didn’t need reminded at every move that he was going to die in his first fight. He knew it, deep down. He wasn’t going to last if he couldn’t find something to give him an advantage, to make him stronger. He wasn’t even very good at flying.

It was on one of the extremely rare occasions that his instructor took a break that V discovered his latent talent. He had slumped to the floor after a particularly grueling drill, the instructor’s graphic descriptions of just how horribly he’d be slaughtered fresh on his mind. He was blinking back tears and trying to rub some feeling back into his gelatinous legs when his eyes landed on an inky black feather before his feet. His wings didn’t shed a lot, so he was drawn to the color and the soft downy feeling of the plume. He traced along the soft barbs, ran his finger along the spine, musing to himself how much easier it’d be to fight if he could have some sort of _weapon_. Ones from outside weren’t permitted, but one that stemmed from superhuman powers…it seemed to be a foolish thought, but then something sharp cut into his finger, and he glanced down at the feather.

To his amazement, the barbs had interlocked, becoming sharper than a razor’s edge. Maybe he stood a fighting chance after all.

——

Weeks turned to months and blended together; before V knew it, it was February—at least, according to Null. He’d made significant progress in training, and he thought he might even stand a chance in combat. But based on Sun’s worrying, the others weren’t so lucky.

Before he knew it, they were being collected from their cages, strung with inhibitors and chains and anything that could possibly prevent escape, and herded into vans filled to bursting with other superhumans. V had been separated from Null and Two, and something in the back of his mind told him that’d be the last he’d see of them. He was lucky enough to be with Sun in the cramped space, and he stuck close to her side, overwhelmed by the sheer number of others crowded in with them.

“Do you think we’ll see the others again?” he asked after a while over the hum of the van’s engine and the general din within the back of the vehicle.

Sun hummed softly, considering the question for a moment. “Maybe,” she eventually answered, her accompanying noncommittal shrug anything but reassuring to V, who was quiet again for a little while before speaking up again.

“Why— Why do we have to fight, Sun?” he whispered, slouching down and shielding his body within his great wings.

“Money,” she mumbled. “To stay alive. I dunno. We all have families out there; maybe one day we’ll see them again, but that can only happen if we’re still breathing.”

His gaze flitted down to his bare feet, and he frowned, poking his tongue out between his lips as he considered her reasoning. _Family_ , huh? But...his family, they were human, weren’t they? He wondered, if he escaped, if they would accept him—a superhuman, a _monster_ , trained to be nothing more than a weapon for a corrupt industry. He contemplated again, as he had many times before, if fighting was even worth it—if it would be easier to just _die_ in the ring. But then fear would kick in, as always, and he’d realize he didn’t _want_ to die—he wanted to live, wanted to see the sunrise again, wanted to feel the rain on his skin again, wanted to hear music again, to sing and dance with his friends, and even go to school again.

What he didn’t want was to face the harsh reality of his situation, but it snuck up on him nonetheless and caught him, dragging him into the darkness.

The van stopped. One by one, superhumans were led away by the familiar men in white. When Sun left, V felt emptier than he had since he first woke up in the cramped cage in the dark room. He figured he was going to be the last to leave—the most valuable merchandise, held back until the very end. He deemed his assumption correct when he was left alone in the van, when he left the van empty as he left.

He wasn’t prepared for what came next, however. After spending the past few months in overwhelming darkness, V was unprepared to be unexpectedly shoved into bright stage lights, surrounded by camera flashes and eyes—so many eyes, all trained on his diminutive figure standing on center stage.

“Our final product,” a man began to speak, and he glanced around fervently until he located him, standing at the edge of the stage. He was dressed in garish, bright colors, adorned with large, gaudy jewelry and held a bedazzled microphone to his lips—though he probably didn’t need it, his voice was loud enough that V figured it would carry on its own. “The final product of one of our most faithful suppliers,” Gaudy Man repeated, “is the first of a new age of superhumans.”

The crowd surrounding them began to mutter and whisper amongst themselves, growing louder and louder until someone within the mass shouted, “And what the hell does that mean?”

“This boy here,” Gaudy began to pace around him, imploring V to follow his path with his gaze, “is human.”

“But the little shit has _wings_!” another voice shouted , and the rest of the crowd joined in, loudly protesting the gaudy presenter’s outlandish claim.

“We’re here to buy superhumans, anyways!”

“What the fuck are you on?”

“Why would we want a _human_?”

“What kind of shit are you trying to pull here?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gaudy attempted to grab the attention of the crowd, waiting for the shouting to die down. “Like with the other products, you have the information about him already. Estimated age, height, weight, blood type, superhuman abilities…You’ll find that his info reveals what makes him so…unique.”

There was a murmur of confusion throughout the crowd; it quieted as the presenter clapped a hand harshly on V’s shoulder, shaking him roughly in a gesture of faux affection.

“Before you, you have the first—and only—artificial superhuman.”

Surely as the shouting had ended, it started again, louder, increasing in intensity as the buyers protested, citing doubts and making wild accusations, but above all of the anger, one voice rang clear:

“I’ll pay one hundred _million_ won for him!”

And suddenly, as if a flame had been lit under the rest of them, prices began flying from all directions. V watched slack-jawed as the cost for his life grew increasingly more expensive with every voice that escaped above the din of the crowd. The presenter was loving it, based on his sinister, toothy grin.

“I’ll give you two hundred million!”

“Five hundred!”

“Eight hundred!”

“Nine hundred!”

“I’ll pay one _billion_ won!”

A hush fell over the buyers then, and it remained like a blanket over the crowd even as the presenter called for any more bids. It seemed his sale was finalized when one man cut in, at the last second:

“Two billion.”

He didn’t think the gaudy presenter could smile any wider, but V watched the man’s painted lips curl up even further into his face at the exclamation. None of the other buyers seemed to want to contest such an extreme price, and before he knew it, V was being dragged off the stage as harshly as he had been dragged onto it.

He was led down a winding hall, manhandled and shoved to the floor inside a cold, dark room. He groaned as his body connected with the hard floor, and he laid there for a while, eyes squeezed shut. Presumably, he was waiting here for the man who… _bought_ him to finish the transaction—two _billion_ won, it was insane—and collect him for whatever nefarious purpose. Fighting, V figured.

“Are you even alive?” he heard a voice within the darkness, and his eyes shot open, sitting up suddenly and smacking his forehead against something hard. The voice cried out in pain, and he heard feet scuffling behind him. He turned to face the sound, eyes taking time to adjust to the darkness before he could make out a figure. A girl, younger than him, significantly so, stared at him from within the suffocating dark.

“So you _are_ alive!” she chirped, her voice betraying how young she was.

“Yeah…for now,” he mumbled, rubbing his forehead, which was still smarting.

“What’s your name? What company are you from? How old are you? What are your powers? What is your—“ the girl began listing off question after question, overwhelming him, and he raised his voice as he interrupted her.

“Stop!” he demanded, holding out a hand to shush her. “Why are you so interested?” he snapped, reeling back as she drew closer.

“I haven’t met another fighter before,” she admitted frankly, not seeming put-off by his outburst. “At least not one I wasn’t about to kill.”

“That’s—“ he paused, swallowing hard. She had experience, it seemed. He knew that fighting ran the risk of death, it was scarred into his brain with every training session, yet to hear it spoken of so candidly made his blood run cold. It was finally becoming a reality to him, his situation. “How— How old are you?” he narrowed his eyes, trying to make out her features in the dark. Her voice was that of someone younger, and of what he could see, she seemed significantly so, compared to him. Were there _children_ actively engaged in fighting? How low could these people stoop?

“I’m ten!” she exclaimed, and he looked over to her in horror. Her wide eyes, shining through the dark, seemed almost _excited_. “I’ve fought ever since I could _walk_ ,” she said, sounding pleased as she crossed her arms. “It’s fun!”

He didn’t know how to respond to her. He didn’t think killing others just to preserve your own life could be _fun_ , and he suddenly felt the urge to scream. To scream and scream until his voice gave out. Something about this girl was decidedly _off_ , and he wondered how long it would take for his own mindset to become so twisted like hers clearly was. He didn’t want to address the topic any more with her, almost fearful of the answers he would receive from someone excited about the prospect of fighting another. Yet, he still wanted to fill the unnerving silence of the dark room, so he changed the subject, inquiring about an entirely different topic that he still was intrigued by.

“You still have your memories?” he questioned, raising his eyebrows at the girl as she nodded.

“My dad was my trainer ever since he found out I had powers. I won so many matches, and he’d give me sweets when I did a particularly good job. Police caught him and sent him away, but he sold me before they could get me,” she stuck out her tongue defiantly, and V scoffed. She was happier about continuing this lifestyle than being set free? It didn’t make sense to him.

He wasn’t given the time to brood over it though as the door behind him was flung open, light streaming into the tiny waiting room, illuminating the younger girl’s round face and wide eyes. She grinned at him, a strange light in her dark eyes. He was hoisted to his feet, and he glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the familiar Doctor Seolhee thumbing through a thick wad of bills in her hand, seemingly pleased. He watched her turn away as he was set down on his feet beside a strange man, who looked down at him distastefully.

“Let’s go, kid,” he muttered gruffly, and he hesitated, glancing back towards the room he’d left to see the girl waving at him before the door slammed shut. “I said, let’s _go_ ,” the man repeated himself, and V obeyed, scurrying after him as best he could with his ankles chained.

——

It had been a long time since V had enjoyed the simple pleasure of sleeping on a real _bed_ , so much so that even one that squealed with every movement, that shuddered when he sat down on it, that smelled of cat piss and mold, was a luxury in his eyes. Though his new living quarters were far from luxurious, at least it wasn’t a dirty old cage.

The man who had retrieved him, his new _boss_ —he insisted V call him “Boss”—had explained enough during the long drive to his new home. V would live in a room in the basement, he wouldn’t ask for anything and he wouldn’t speak with the Boss or his family, and he would practice to keep his skills sharp at least once a week. He was scheduled to fight once a month, and his first was rapidly approaching, about a week from that moment.

The days passed rather uneventfully. The dirty, mildew-mottled walls offered no entertainment, and he was kept constantly under lock and key, inhibitors gracing his wrists almost permanently. But at one point a...book, a thin book with a paper cover, had appeared from the space under the door. He was reluctant to take it, realizing it wasn’t the Boss who had given it to him and that he’d probably be angry if he knew, but he was soon overcome with curiosity. He didn’t recognize the title, and many of the words within were unknown to him, yet it kept him busy. He hid the book under his mattress every time the Boss came around, and he’d forego sleep just to read, wrapped up in the characters and the story despite only comprehending half of the contents.

He finished it the night before his first true experience with fighting, and he slid it back under the door. It was gone in the morning when the Boss came to collect him.

——

He didn’t know what he was expecting when he first heard of the superhuman fighting circuits from Two, Sun, and Null, but it was significantly less...horrific when he pictured it in his own mind. They’d arrived in the midst of a round, and his Boss had allowed him to stay and watch the end. A tiny girl within the ring, separated from the crowd of spectators by only a thick, chain-link curtain, was tearing apart another with her bare hands, her skin stained red. He blanched, feeling his knees go weak beneath him when he saw the girl’s face—it was the girl from the waiting room. He tried to turn and make a break for it, but the Boss caught him, dragging him by his forearm away from the spectators and towards a gate within the metal barrier, where his inhibitors were shut off and removed.

His eyes widened as the gate swung open, and two masked figures carried out the bloody remains of the loser of the last fight. He was going to be sick, he was going to _die_ , more importantly, and V couldn’t prevent the tears that began to sting his eyes from flowing freely down his cheeks. The spectators suddenly grew very loud, screams and cheers drowning out the drawl of a voice over a loudspeaker and the sound of his own sobs. The gate was still open in front of him, and his Boss gave him a rough shove towards it. Getting the message, V stumbled through, wincing as it slammed behind him. He barely registered the audience’s shouting; all noise sounded as if he was hearing it from underwater. He glanced frantically around the ring, searching for an out, but found none. His gaze finally landed on his opponent—a boy, a few years older than him, with unruly, bleached hair. Something about his face, something about the shape of his eyes and the curve of his lips sparked something in the back of his mind, and a name was called to the front of his memory.

“Yoongi…?”

He cocked his head, unsure why he knew the name, unsure why it seemed to belong to the boy in front of him, but he figured he must have known him. The blond’s eyes widened, and he took a step towards him, speaking, and though V barely comprehended what he was saying, he recognized his voice.

“Taehyung? What happened to you?” he asked, his brows furrowed in an expression of concern.

“Who’s Taehyung?” he shook his head, taking a step back and squeezing his eyes shut when his wings, folded against his back, came in contact with the metal gate. “Who are _you_? Why do I know your name?” He ran his hands over his face, his head suddenly exploding with pain. Vague figures and foreign places flashed across the insides of his eyelids, and he tried to reach out, to grasp them, but they flitted away from his hold.

“ _You’re_ Taehyung!” the other’s voice exclaimed. “We were— We were _friends_ , you disappeared…”

“My name isn’t Taehyung!” he shouted, gripping his head tighter as more pain bloomed behind his eyes. The name felt right on his tongue, yet he couldn’t explain why. “I don’t have a name! You’re lying!”

“You were human…I could have sworn you were human,” the other’s tone had grown softer, and he sounded much closer. “Yet, you have wings…Taehyung, what happened to you?”

How did the other know that he was…human? His eyes shot open, and he glanced up at the blond over his hands. He must be telling the truth, he decided, and if he was telling the truth…they knew each other, they were friends…his real name was _Taehyung_. It wouldn’t feel so… _right_ if it wasn’t.

“I d— I don’t know,” he admitted with a sniff, bringing his hands down from his face. “Testing and cages and—“

He was interrupted by the voice over the loudspeaker, impatiently demanding that the two begin _doing_ something.

“Fuck off!” the blond— _Yoongi_ —shouted, turning and shooting a glare upwards, seemingly at nothing. “We don’t have much time; Taehyung, where _were_ you?”

“Kidnapped,” was all he could offer, “I don’t know where. They made me…made me superhuman. Please, Y— Yoongi, do I have a family out there? Are they okay? I don’t remember them, I don’t remember any of it. I don’t know...I don’t know who you are.”

“Yes,” Yoongi replied, nodding his head fervently, “yes, you have a family that loves and misses you so much, Taehyung...they miss you so much.”

“Stop— Stop calling me that,” he mumbled, turning away from the blond.

“What? Taehyung? But it’s your name…”

“It’s not. It’s not my name, not anymore,” he insisted. “Everyone just calls me V.”

“You may not remember, but that doesn’t change who you are. Your name is Kim Taehyung, you would’ve turned fourteen this past December—“

“Stop!” he pleaded, unsure if he could take hearing any more of the life he’d lost.

“You have two younger siblings, a brother and a sister, and many great friends who would do anything for you. You’re friendly, and kind, and maybe a bit naïve, but you—“

“No! Stop it!”

“You reached out to a stranger, impervious to how he had despised you, and offered him companionship he’d never had before,” Yoongi’s voice had grown softer as he reached the end of his tirade, and before he could make any more protests, the voice over the loudspeaker spoke up again:

“If you two wouldn’t _mind_ , we have an audience who paid to see a _fight_ , not...whatever the hell _this_ is.”

“Oh, whatever!” Yoongi scoffed, retreating to his end of the cage. “Have you fought before?”

V, or Taehyung, or _whichever_ —he didn’t have the time to continue his identity crisis—shook his head, biting his lip and worrying it between his teeth.

“Consider me a practice round, but don’t expect to win,” the older warned, bracing his feet against the concrete floor. “I’m not going to hurt you, but others will try. Don’t let them; if you aren’t stronger than them, you’re _smarter_ , and that’s what’ll win you the fight.”

He nodded in understanding, much calmer knowing that Yoongi wouldn’t hurt him; setting his jaw and wiping his eyes, he reached back and plucked a large feather from each of his wings. In one quick, fluid motion, he had transformed the plumes into blades, and he brandished them despite how they bit into his palms with an air of forced confidence. But his facade fell quickly as the temperature around him dropped suddenly, and he shivered, hugging his arms to his bare torso. He noticed that a sheet of ice had begun to coat the concrete, and he leapt into the air, hovering above it just in time to prevent the ice from overtaking him. It was extending from the bottoms of Yoongi’s feet.

He locked eyes with the blond for a moment, and after Yoongi gave him a curt nod, he darted forward, raising his blades in preparation to deliver a dangerous blow.

Countered. The razor-sharp edges of his feather-swords cut easily through a block of ice that now stood in place of Yoongi, who was sliding back nonchalantly on the surface of the ice.

He landed softly on his feet, shivering as the ice came in contact with his bare soles, only having a split second to think before Yoongi was dashing towards him, spikes of ice protruding around him with each flick of Yoongi’s wrist. He dodged one that certainly would have impaled him, but lost his footing. He went sliding forwards towards Yoongi. He figured he’d at least try to take the older with him, and he reached out for his ankle as he passed the older’s legs. Yet Yoongi was one step ahead of him, slipping easily away from his grasp and kicking his blade away in one swift motion.

He cursed as he collided with the unforgiving meal of the cage, but he used it to gain enough leverage to rise to his feet again. Immediately, he was kicking off into the air, narrowly avoiding being burnt to a crisp as Yoongi sent a blaze of flames in his direction.

“You have _two_ powers? That’s not fair!” he protested, gliding back down towards the older. He used his wings to shield himself from the flames, alighting close enough to Yoongi to strike him. His remaining blade once again sunk into ice. Yoongi had encased his own arms in it, and before he could even react, it surrounded his fists. They were frozen together where they gripped the sharp hilt of his blade. He tried to break free, but to no avail. Huffing, he gave up on it, choosing to dart forwards in Yoongi’s direction, swinging the exposed edge of the sword wildly.

Yet the ice continued to creep up his arms, and Yoongi just continued dodging. The ice coated his forearms. It crawled up to his shoulders. His arms grew too heavy to lift, and his wings had begun to freeze in place.

“Call for a forfeit,” Yoongi mumbled, pity unmissable in his eyes. “You’re going to get frostbite. I’m sorry.”

“I can forfeit? Nobody told me I could…” Yoongi met his questioning glance with an affirmative nod, and he turned his head to shout towards the heavens: “I— I forfeit! I’m done, I’ve lost. I forfeit.”

His exclamation was met with cheers from the audience, which took up a chant of “Hades!”—whatever that meant. The ice surrounding his bare skin began to melt away, leaving him shivering but free.

“Good luck, Taehyung,” Yoongi said to him as he turned on his heel, “stay safe.”

V—no, _Taehyung_ —watched him go, pondering the unmistakable waver he’d heard in the other’s voice. He still didn’t know who Yoongi was, and he wasn’t sure he really knew who _Taehyung_ was either, but at least he knew he had something to fight for—a family, waiting for his return. He resolved to see them again, whether he’d recognize them or not.

——

The look on his Boss’s face betrayed that he was very much not pleased with him when he stepped out of the ring. The man was giving Taehyung the silent treatment the entire ride home, and they boy just wished he would get it over with and suffocate him with it. The silence had become too unbearable.

So he focused his attention on his bleeding hands, watching the blood bubble and drip down his fingertips from the deep gashes his blades had caused. His own blood was a common sight for him. It no longer made his stomach churn with nausea.

He wanted to ask his Boss for some bandages for his hands as he set foot back in his basement room, but he couldn’t get a word out before the man struck him. He staggered back, clutching his jaw as pain blossomed from it.

“Don’t you _ever_ ,” the man punctuated the word with another blow to his nose, “pull that _shit_ ,” another blow, “ _ever_ again.”

Taehyung stumbled to the ground, clutching at his nose, trying to shield it as his Boss stalked closer. He cried out as a foot collided with the side of his face, sending him sprawling onto the dirty floor. The foot connected with his side, then again, and again and again and again until his breaths were coming in wheezed gasps. Red splattered on the floor, dripping from his chin, as violent coughs racked his form. A tooth joined the smattering of blood on the concrete.

“You lose _me_ money when you forfeit,” the man hissed, standing on one of his wings before he could wrap it around himself as protection. Taehyung gritted his teeth, writhing as he dug his heel into the sensitive skin beneath the black feathers. “You don't have a choice to surrender.”

He felt the pressure on his wing alleviate, but it was immediately supplanted by the sole of a shoe stomping down on the back of his head. He winced at the loud crunch that followed as his nose was ground down into the hard floor. Taehyung reached up behind him, trying to grab at the man’s ankle, but his Boss was stronger than him. He couldn’t throw him off.

“You die before you surrender. At least I get compensated if you die.” More pressure was applied to his head, fogging up Taehyung’s vision as blackness creeped around the edges. And suddenly, it was released, but Taehyung didn’t get to enjoy the respite as his head was yanked up by his hair. The man bent his neck back painfully to meet his gaze, causing a whimper to escape Taehyung’s throat.

“Do you understand me?”

Taehyung choked out a garbled “Yessir,” and his Boss scrutinized his face for a few moments before releasing him.

“Your next fight is in a month,” he heard the man say as he left him there. “Don’t disappoint me again.” Taehyung watched his shoes retreat, and then darkness consumed him.

——

When Taehyung awoke the next morning, he was laying on the lumpy old mattress of his bed. His raised his hands to observe them; they were bandaged neatly. He reached up, his fingertips lightly tracing, surveying the damage to his face. His nose was taped up, and he could feel that his lips were split and swollen. He sighed, laying back and wincing as the bedframe squealed beneath him. At least the mind-numbing pain had become nothing but a dull throb beneath the surface of his skin.

——

A month passed, and Taehyung was on the mend. He wasn’t one-hundred percent yet, but he had no choice. He had a fight to partake in, and he’d spent the month practicing diligently to avoid a repeat of last time—to avoid another defeat.

His Boss’s words echoed in the back of his mind as he approached the ring, and he balled his hands into fists, digging his nails into the bandages around his palms that had become ubiquitous. He resolved to fight for real, to fight to win this time. He had a family waiting for him—death wasn’t an option. He built himself up with empty consolations, telling himself it would be fine, that he was stronger, smarter, than any opponent. When he came face-to-face with the tall, muscular boy on the opposite end of the ring, however, his delusion crumbled. He was still small and weak, and he shrunk into himself, suddenly self-conscious of his exposed chest. He didn’t stand a chance.

But he had a family to return to.

The boy was introduced as “Boreas,” and Taehyung himself was introduced as “Icarus”—he’d learned after his encounter with Yoongi that the audience had a tendency to give nicknames to the fighters to make them easier to identify.

With the sound of the announcer’s “Go,” Taehyung took to the air. He’d utilize his only advantage as much as possible, and attack from above—

A strong gust of air blew him back into the iron curtain, and then a gale from above sent him tumbling to the concrete. His nose smacked against the ground, and he heard a sickening crack. He wiped the fresh blood away and fixated a glare on his opponent, who was grinning smugly with his hands extended.

“Of _course_ he can control _wind_ ,” Taehyung muttered to himself. He couldn’t rely on flight. His only advantage had been stripped from him. He wasn’t about to give up, though. He reached behind him, producing a pair of feather-blades, and stood his ground. The boy could bombard him with gust after gust, but that wouldn’t be enough to _kill_ him.

He’d have to get closer.

Taehyung took a few tentative steps forwards, bracing himself against the wind. The boy took a step back. The dance continued that way, with Taehyung growing closer and the boy backing away, still sending gusts in Taehyung’s direction. But they were getting weaker. Was Boreas growing tired?

It appeared that way when Taehyung dared to take to the sky again, finding the light breeze meant to oppose him rather… _pleasant_. He dived towards the boy, blades extended. He wasn’t prepared for him to dodge at the last second and land a kick to his still-bruised ribs.

Taehyung went sprawling to the ground once again with a choked cry, landing hard on his forearms. He shuffled away as the boy drew closer, unable to collect himself before another kick was coming in his direction. He raised his arms. The boy screamed and fell with a thud. His blade had sliced half of his foot right off.

Steadying himself, Taehyung tried to avoid the sight of the boy’s bloodied foot as he clutched it to himself. He could see bone, a clean cut rending both it and the surrounding flesh. Taehyung approached his opponent, red-stained sword pointed beneath his chin.

“Surrender,” he demanded, as Yoongi had urged him before.

The boy scoffed, grabbing at Taehyung's ankle and pulling him down. He turned sharply, and Taehyung was pinned to the floor. His blade had been knocked away. Bloody fingers found their way to his neck, and he clawed at them with one hand as he reached desperately for his sword with the other.

“Stupid _kid_ ,” Boreas grumbled through gritted teeth, digging his fingernails into Taehyung’s throat. The latter narrowed his eyes. If he couldn’t reach his sword, he’d improvise. He could reach the lower half of his wing, and he traced his fingers along the edges of his feathers there. The prick in his fingertips meant they’d gone sharp, and he plucked one, twisting his arm painfully to stab it into the boy’s wrist.

The vice on his neck loosened, and Taehyung shoved the boy off, withdrawing his new blade to stab it through his bicep, and then his shoulder, and then into the fresh wound on his foot and straight through the concrete floor. He was stuck there. Taehyung kept his hold on the blade to prevent the boy from tearing it out.

“Surrender,” he demanded again, taking in the damage he’d done to the boy’s arm and feeling a wave of regret wash over him. “Please, surrender.”

The boy glared at him through teary eyes, but obliged, announcing his forfeit. Taehyung withdrew his blade, allowing it to clatter to the floor as he took a deep, heaving breath. He’d won. He’d won, he’d live to see another day.

As the adrenaline wore off, the pain in his limbs and nose returned, and Taehyung limped back to the gate. He spared one final glance to the boy, but wished he hadn’t. His eyes widened as the boy’s owner stormed into the ring, forced his head back, and slit his throat right there. Taehyung turned and vomited all over the shirt of one of the assistants helping him out of the ring.

——

“Did I tell you that you could _spare_ opponents?” his Boss was screaming at him, slamming his back against the basement wall with his fists around Taehyung’s neck.

“You just told me to win or die. I won,” Taehyung spat, kicking at the furious man as he tried to squirm out of his grasp.

“Not good enough! You _kill_ your opponents, you hear!?”

“He died anyways! So _what_ if _I_ wasn’t the one to kill him?” he challenged, defiance flaring up. His Boss reeled back, preparing to strike him. Taehyung flinched, but the blow never came. His Boss just tossed him to the floor.

“Kill your opponent next time, or there will be hell to pay.”

——

Though the threat frightened Taehyung, he refused to give in. He won the next few matches—barely, but he won them nonetheless—and every time he gave his opponent a chance to surrender. Every time, they took it. Sometimes their owners didn’t even kill them, which made Taehyung happy. Surely they all had families, too.

That was why he refused to kill. He was fighting because he had a family he needed to see again. He couldn’t take others from their families.

But with each decision to spare a rival, he endured the punishment that came with it. His Boss had taken to beating him quite savagely after each match with his belt, targeting the skin of his back and around the base of his wings. He’d often strike him with the buckle, allowing the unforgiving metal to bite into his skin.

Taehyung had tried to run the first few times, but finding that only made the situation worse, decided to just…endure it. To grit his teeth and take the blows until his Boss was satisfied with the bloody mess he’d made of Taehyung’s back. After a few times, the feathers had stopped growing in so thick around the mutilated skin nearest his shoulder blades.

He could take it, though, if it meant saving a life and preserving that life’s chance to escape this hell.

He’d always awake to his torso bandaged and his palms stitched up, along with whatever other wounds that needed attention. He wondered for months who was so kind to patch him up, and eventually, he caught sight of him.

He had been feigning unconsciousness to encourage his Boss to grow bored of hitting him and move on more quickly. It never worked, but he tried it anyways. Shortly after the man had left, a boy snuck into the dank basement room. He had arrived empty-handed save a pencil, but he sat down beside Taehyung and began to draw with it on the concrete. Swift motions eventually gave way to a first-aid kit nearly _materializing_ beside him, and Taehyung couldn’t keep up the pretense any longer.

“Are you…superhuman?” he whispered, pushing himself up on shaky arms. The boy’s eyes betrayed no surprise that Taehyung was awake, and he nodded.

“My dad doesn’t know,” he muttered, rifling through the first-aid kit. He slid closer to Taehyung once he seemed to find what he was looking for. “Your hands…”

Taehyung extended his palms to him, wincing as he poured a disinfectant over the cuts. “Your dad?” he asked, the realization dawning on him as the boy shot him a look. “The Boss is…”

“Yeah. You should look away,” he suggested, and Taehyung complied, biting down on his lip as something sharp pricked through his palm. Eventually the boy moved onto his other hand; by that point, Taehyung’s lip was bleeding between his teeth. He didn’t want to give the boy away, so he swallowed the pained cries that threatened to bubble out of his throat as his palms were stitched up again.

With his hands wrapped up, secured with bandages, the boy moved on to his back.

“God,” Taehyung heard him breathe out, “why do you let him do this to you?”

“I have a family out there,” he mused, sighing softly. “Surely the other fighters have families, too. Families that love them and miss them and want them back safe and sound. I can’t take that away from them. I can’t just kill them.”

The boy didn’t respond, just murmured a warning that “This is going to hurt.” Taehyung braced his hands on his knees, digging his nails into the skin as he dabbed disinfectant into the open gashes on his back. A few tears leaked from his eyes as he squeezed them shut at the burning, stabbing pain that persisted for what felt like hours.

He didn’t know how much more he could take when the boy finally drew away, reaching around him for the bandages.

“Lift your arms up,” he commanded, and Taehyung did, trying to hold steady as he wrapped the bandages around his torso. He stepped around softly to crouch in front of Taehyung again, scrutinizing his handiwork for a moment. “You don’t seem to have any serious injuries from the match today.”

“Nah,” Taehyung shrugged. “I got lucky. It was an easy opponent.” The boy simply nodded, packing the supplies back into the first-aid kit. “Thank you, by the way,” Taehyung whispered, staring at his hands in his lap. “I’d probably be dead by now, so…”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, not looking up as he took up his pencil again and erased the outline of the little box. Taehyung’s eyes widened as it disappeared into thin air.

“That’s so cool,” he mumbled, and the boy glanced up at him, a small smile softening his sharp features. “Uh— Um,” Taehyung stuttered, intimidated by his pointed gaze, “what’s your name, if— if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Call me JB,” he said simply, and Taehyung nodded. “And you are…?”

“Oh! I’m,” he paused, unsure if the name he gave would be the truth. Yoongi had said _Taehyung_ , and he had adopted it as his name, referring to himself as it, but he still wasn’t…certain. “I’m Taehyung,” he finally decided to say, solidifying it in his mind. He _was_ Taehyung.

——

It continued for a few more months that Taehyung spared his opponents. It continued for a few more months that he endured the physical punishment for sparing his opponents. It continued for a few more months that JB would appear in the dead of night to bandage the wounds he’d received for sparing his opponents.

But it eventually reached its breaking point.

The Boss had foregone the usual punishment after the seventh or eighth time Taehyung had disobeyed him. He had thrown him against the basement wall as usual, but instead of reaching for his belt, he stalked over to where Taehyung had collapsed. His hands circled around his neck, squeezing painfully tight.

Taehyung couldn’t breathe, his vision was going dark. He thought the Boss would actually kill him this time. But just as he felt his grasp on consciousness slipping, the grip on his neck loosened.

“Next time you disobey me, I’ll kill you.”

The man left a retching Taehyung with that promise, and the boy curled in on himself as he caught his breath. He had no choice anymore. If he wanted to see his family again, he’d have to take others away from theirs. He bit his lip, covering his mouth with one hand and beating at the hard ground with his other. He cursed himself for being so weak, for being unable to stand up to the man who called him his “Boss.” He cursed himself for surviving the experiments of Doctor Seolhee and the men in white, for becoming a _monster_ instead of just dying as he should’ve.

——

He couldn’t believe he was about to oblige to his Boss’s wishes the next time he stood within the ring, facing a girl who looked _terrified_ in the face of “Icarus”—increasingly more popular in the eyes of the audience. He wished he wished he could console her, he could tell her not to be frightened, that he wouldn’t harm her. But it’d be a lie. If he wanted to survive, he would have to…

“Fight me with everything you have,” he said, the conviction in his tone causing her gaze to snap up to him.

She did. She proved a worthy opponent to Taehyung, as she blinded him and forced him to rely on sound and instinct to find her. But she was weaker than he was, and her attempts to subdue him were futile.

He killed her. She had jumped onto his back, trying to get him in a chokehold. He had no trouble darting into the air and twisting, throwing her off from a height much farther than was ideal for survival.

He killed her. The darkness dissipated from his eyes, and he alighted softly to his feet beside her. She was gasping, wide-eyed. “I surrender,” she had cried, and he’d given her a deadpan stare.

He killed her. He reached behind him, preparing a blade. He refused to look at her as he stabbed it through her throat, refused to look down until the gargling and writhing had ceased. And then he did, taking in the damage he’d dealt with wide eyes.

Taehyung had killed her, a girl who was just fighting to survive like him. He dropped to his knees, hands still loosely gripping the blade. He took in the sight of her legs, bent at odd angles, with bone protruding. He took in the sight of blood pooling around her fair skin and around his knees. He noticed the blood splatter on the edge of his sword, on his hands, and he released the hilt in a frenzy. He stared at his hands for a moment, then he gripped the sides of his head and screamed. Wordless apologies and frantic cries escaped his lips as he shook his head violently, backing away from the body.

He half-crawled to the chain curtain surrounding them, gripping it and shaking it desperately as more hoarse screams spilled from his throat. He needed out. He couldn’t kill again, he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to die but he didn’t want to kill others just to live. He needed out. He had to get out.

Eventually, a strong grip encircled his arms, and he was being dragged away. He was dragged out of the ring, kicking and screaming, the girl’s frightened visage of death burned into his memory.

——

It grew easier over time. It grew easier for Taehyung to take the lives of others, to witness their last moments on earth. The next few matches following his first kill left him a screaming, sobbing mess, but as he grew used to the sight of ashen skin and terrified, lifeless eyes, the fits ceased. But it only took a few matches for him to come to terms with it—if he wanted to live, others had to die. If he wanted to see his family again, others would never get the chance. He had to live, so he had to kill.

It probably spanned an entire year that Taehyung spent going through the motions, killing his opponents swiftly, as if in a daze. He wasn’t in tune with what his body was doing anymore, he’d grown disconnected. Anything to survive.

His Boss was evidently pleased with him, as the pain, the punishments, grew less and less frequent. As long as Taehyung was making his way up the ranks of fighters, killing every opponent he faced, he was safe from the beatings, the lashes, and the appearance of more white scars to mar his back.

Just as he was growing complacent in his role as a killer, Taehyung was thrust into a nightmare. Everything came crashing down around him when a familiar face greeted him on the opposite end of the fighters’ cage.

“Sun?”

He’d never seen the girl in the light before, and he decided that she was beautiful. Joyous eyes sparkled from within a round face, framed by shining blonde hair. It literally _shined_ —beneath the light, it was giving off a faint, radiant light.

“V! Oh, my God, you’re alive!” she exclaimed, rushing forward to embrace him.

“Not V,” he mumbled, smiling sheepishly. “Taehyung. My name is Taehyung.”

She smiled brightly at him then, and Taehyung felt like crying. He didn’t want to kill Sun. Did she know about his growing reputation? He was a murderer, and if he wanted to survive to see another day, he’d have to murder an old friend.

He heard his Boss clear his throat, and he glanced over his shoulder. The dangerous look the man shot him made his blood run cold, and Taehyung glanced back at Sun one more time before he slowly reached behind him. He hoped she wouldn’t notice. He wanted to get it over with, to memorize her features while she was happy and smiling. He didn’t want his last memory of her alive to be one of terror at the sight of him.

She was rambling on, however, completely oblivious to how he sharpened a small blade in his hand. He gulped, squeezing his eyes shut then. He didn’t want to see any more.

“Sun,” he interrupted her, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Why are you sorry, Tae—“

He plunged the knife deep into her chest, gritting his teeth and turning his face away as he felt her go limp against him. He slipped out of her loosening embrace, stepping back to escape before he had to witness the lifeless eyes of the one person who had been the most caring, the most understanding towards him in the dark room of cages.

But he lost his balance in trying to escape, and his eyes flew open as he sought to right himself.

Her expression was frozen in one of dawning realization and horror, almost…betrayal. And he had betrayed her, hadn’t he?

He stumbled backwards, unable to prevent the sobs that ripped through his body, unable to prevent the tears that began to flow freely down his cheeks. Blood surrounded her, stained her lovely hair red. Taehyung’s blade was still lodged deep in her chest…her _heart_.

She had been so kind to him. So endlessly kind. And how had he repaid her? He had killed her to save himself. His family, he had to see them again…but didn’t she also wonder about her family? What would her family think, knowing that she was never going to return to them?

He wanted to see his family again, but he didn’t think they’d recognize the _monster_ that Kim Taehyung had become. What made him think that he was more deserving of returning home again than any of the others he’d thoughtlessly killed? If anything, he was the least deserving. A murderer like him didn’t deserve happiness. Sun did. Sweet Sun, who cared for the nameless human boy who was doomed to die from the start.

He figured he’d finish the job the experiments had failed to complete.

He reached forward, clutching the short blade and removing it. Taehyung stared at his own reflection in the blood that soaked it; wide eyes with dark circles beneath them, a crooked, twice-broken nose, and long, unruly hair framing a face that had yet to lose all its baby fat stared back at him, all bathed in a red hue. _The face of a murderer_ , a voice in the back of his mind snarled. He nodded in agreement with it, raising the blade in a daze.

The spectators, and in particular, his Boss, seemed to realize what thought was on his mind by then, because the gate behind him flew open, and he could hear panicked voices shouting at him to stop. But Taehyung had no intention of listening. Everything around him seemed to move in slow motion, as if he existed in his own little world. He angled the blade downward, eyes dancing over the razor-sharp edge.

In one swift motion, he plunged the blade deep into his own chest, a scream tearing its way out of his throat. Pain, there was pain, so much pain. It hurt, it hurt so much, yet he still forced it deeper. He embraced the darkness when it came for him.

Yet, as he hovered on the brink of death, the reality of his actions struck him. What had he _done_? He didn’t want to die! He wanted to see his family again. Vague, scattered memories were called to the surface of his mind, and he realized that he wanted to walk his brother and sister to school again, to play games with his friends after school again. He wanted to hear his mother’s voice, wanted to hear that lullaby she always sang to him during thunderstorms to calm him. He wanted to see his father again, wanted to go fishing on weekends. He wanted to visit his grandparents’ farm and pick strawberries, just to eat half of them and get sick later.

He couldn’t do any of that if he succumbed to the darkness then. He’d done so much wrong, he’d caused so much hurt, and he’d always regret it. But dying wouldn’t bring anyone back, it wouldn’t bring Sun back. He had to live, he had to live to preserve their memory. He had no right to decide to throw away his own life, to take it for granted in this way, when so many had it taken from them, when so many who had wanted to _live_ had their lives snatched from under them. He had no right to escape his guilt in this way. He had to bear it, to atone for it. He had to feel the regret for the rest of his life.

And so Taehyung clung to the last remnants of the world of the living.

——

The dim light and dingy ceiling of his basement room greeted Taehyung when he finally awoke again. He had no idea how much time had passed, but the pain in his chest had subsided to naught but a dull discomfort. He slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing at the squeal of his rusted metal bed frame, the sound loud and grating on his ears.

He was alive. Regrettably or thankfully, he was alive. He reached a hand up, placing it firmly in the center of his chest to ensure it was true, that he was real, and there.

Taehyung had survived, and all the guilt of his most recent memory came crashing down on him. He felt ashamed of himself, glaring down at the bandages around his chest that acted as a reminder of his folly. And then the familiar sting of tears prickled in his eyes, and he let a few fall. He couldn’t undo his actions. He could only choose what he would do from then on. His first choice _was_  going to be to break out of there, to finally find the courage he’d lacked and just _run_ , but his Boss came storming into his room with JB in tow, interrupting his plans.

He startled at the force of the door slamming against the wall, nearly falling off of the bed in shock.

“Listen here, you worthless piece of _shit_ ,” the man jabbed an accusing finger into Taehyung’s chest. “Don’t you ever pull something like that again.”

Taehyung hung his head, sending JB a sidelong glance. He wondered why the other was here—hadn’t the Boss wanted his family to remain oblivious of Taehyung living in their basement?

“You’ve been doing well. I can’t afford to lose the cash you’re making me,” the Boss continued. “You’re not _permitted_ to die. You’re not _permitted_ to allow yourself to get killed. You’re not _permitted_ to throw a match. I’ll show you what happens from _now on_ if you dare disobey me.”

The man reached for his son, dragging him over by his hair to stand in front of Taehyung. “Since punishing you doesn’t seem to have any affect anymore, I suppose I’ll just have to make you _responsible_ for someone else’s pain. Don’t think I wasn’t _aware_ of you two becoming so buddy-buddy.”

Taehyung watched the man lay a devastating blow on his son, and then squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to watch any more. JB had become somewhat of a _friend_ to him during the past year, and it caused pain like no other to brew in his chest watching his Boss hurt his _friend_ because of him.

He heard the continued sounds of a scuffle, of JB pleading with his father to stop. At one point, Taehyung joined in, begging the man to leave JB alone, promising he’d listen, he’d obey. A rough hand squeezed his jaw, and he cracked open his eyes.

“If you’re lying to me, nothing will prevent me from killing everyone who’s ever been dear to you,” the Boss threatened, and Taehyung dared to glance over at JB, beaten to a bloody pulp, but very much alive.

“I’ll obey,” he whispered, “I swear it.”

——

The next time Taehyung stood in the ring, a few months later, he didn’t hesitate. Hesitation was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He was desperate to get it over with, desperate to kill his opponent and move on. He didn’t even spare them a glance, didn’t dare to look into their eyes. He knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to obey the Boss’s orders. He’d put JB at risk, and probably his whole family. Something in him told him that his Boss _could_ find his family if he wanted to.

A couple of months of rushed, bloody battles ensued, and then, Taehyung was moving on. Something had happened with his old boss, and he was being relocated.

His new owner was a big name among the companies involved in fighting. He was a dirty old man who almost owned more fighters than he had room for, and they were all popular, successful fighters at that. He didn’t bother to befriend them. They’d all die in time, anyways.

He didn’t know how long he’d spent with his first boss. He didn’t know how long it had been since his first fight against Yoongi. All he knew was that he’d certainly grown taller and broader, and his reflection, when he caught sight of it, no longer showed a scared child, but a rugged young man with an unidentifiable light in his eyes. His unruly hair had grown too long to fight with, as well. He’d taken to tying it back in a messy updo to keep it out of his way in combat.

Life with a new owner was much different than it had been with his previous boss. The old man demanded that every fighter under his name call him “Master.” With the threats of old gone, Taehyung ventured to revert back to his old methods of sparing those he faced in the ring. But after the first instance, his Master made sure he knew he wasn’t going to stand for it. He made sure in a much _different_ manner than Taehyung’s old boss had employed, one that didn’t hurt any less and made him feel disgusting in his own skin.

After a few years with the man, he no longer cared if he’d see his family again, he no longer bothered to burden himself with his sins. It had become too much, all too much. Fighting became a respite. He’d grown to _enjoy_ the moments he spent in the ring, because at least they offered a distraction from the horrors he’d experience when he left.

He needed something to satisfy the twitch in his fingers, so he dug his fist into his opponent’s chest, tearing away flesh until he reached his heart. He needed something to drown out the echo in his ears of the disgusting whispers of the man who his Master had sold him out to two nights before, so he drew out the final moments of his opponent, tormenting her until her screams were the only sound to fill his ears. He needed something to focus his flighty, uneasy gaze on, so he painted his opponents red with their own blood, smearing it over his own skin until he didn’t feel so _disgusting_ within it. He needed something to replace the lingering, slimy taste on his tongue, so he sank his teeth into his opponents’ flesh, biting and tearing like a dog gone rabid, licking the blood from his lips and his teeth until the taste of copper overpowered everything else.

Taehyung reveled in bloodshed. He tore his rivals limb-from-limb, he brutalized his opponents until they were an unidentifiable mess. He tortured them slowly just to hear their screams. He celebrated the sight of blood staining his skin.

He no longer wondered about the world outside of the ring. He no longer needed to return to it. It no longer offered him solace. He was a _monster_ , irreconcilable. All he needed were his blades and somebody to use them on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m so sorry. leave me hate comments i know i deserve it. i don’t know when the next chapter will come out, im sorry. i have my AP art portfolio to work on, and i just needed to finish this before i could really focus on it. surely, another will come before the end of May. i’ll try my hardest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! This is my first time actually posting a fic of mine anywhere online, and I’m super excited to share it with anyone who wants to read it !!
> 
> My twitter is @/orangenseok, other AU-related content (and general bullshitting) will be posted there.
> 
> Again, this is just BTS’s side of the story, GOT7’s is being written by Bright_Moon_Beam! I really recommend checking hers out!


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